The poetic contract killer

 When I kill a poem ever so silently..

Choke it’s neck without leisure 

Choose to work for a penny more

Rather than feed the hungry poet’s soul

When I choose to lie back in fatigue, in laziness 

And not give the words a pen to write.

My poems… killed, awaken from the dead..

Haunt me and say.. Have you sold your soul?

Your poetic soul for two pennies more..

A contract killer on hire.. Yes..

I kill poems for money now..

Calluses .. Excuses

 I faintly remember your chiseled face,

The stubble, the angles..some semblance of you

Trying to revive what I felt for you.:

Was it true? Was it all a lie to erase?

I remember our fingers entwined in a clasp, those times

Now all that remains is my rough callused hand..

The friction of holding and letting go..numerous times

Dry, unfeeling with a wart right on the fate line..my lone hand