Blending with the light,
as ancients did―
on the leafy path.
You turn your gun―
on an old skull,
with broken teeth,
to rewrite the murder,
without qualms. A sniper
would take an aim.
Untouchable, the years
roll by, sending echos
in the valley of tears.
A final stroke.
The blood stops in the veins
while the angel sleeps.