COLD HAND ON A CRUEL NIGHT

COLD HAND ON A CRUEL NIGHT

I was killed by a cold hand on a cruel night,
By some wide-eyed drugged up jokester's slashing knife.
It pierced my heart clean in two, in pieces on the ground.
My body melted in the air, my remains were never found.

I was killed by a cold heart in a warm bed,
One too many sleeping pills clouded up my head.
I rose so high and slept so soundly that I never woke,
And death it came and wrapped me in its tender cloak.

I was killed by a magic mystic on some far mountain,
My body he gave as a burnt offering, it was pleasing to his god,
Who ate my body hungrily like a flesh and blood fountain,
And who praised the mystic kindly with a knowing wink and nod.

I was killed slowly by a crippling disease that compromised my brain,
My muscles rigid as a rope held taut against my frame.
I was murdered by it gradually, it had no qualm or shame.
But it knew what it was doing and was guilty all the same.

I was killed by a cold hand on a cruel night,
A man who could not be reasoned with, who robbed me of my sight.
A man who knew me intimately, a man who stood quite near,
As he left, I slowly turned, my own reflection in the mirror.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED