She walked across the floor towards the freedom of the door
With flashbacks of his face before she'd hit him on the head
Upon the floor the blood had dried. No sorrow, she'd not even cried
In fact she gave a smile when she had seen the bastard dead
She breathed in stale cigarettes; stubbed out in many ashtrays
Reminding her of breath that he had spat out in her face
Her chosen weapon by his side, his skull with which it did collide
Was now a simple iron that she put back in its place
She looked at him a moment and she tried hard to remember
So long ago she'd loved this vile thing upon the floor
The man who lay there quite with no threats to steal her confidence
Would not now hold her back as she walked freely out the door
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDelete