Waiting with legs set and locked in
Position to strike I finally heard
Those pistol-shot words that somehow
Gave me permission to lay waste and
Put all my weight down on that
Poor boy's face. Not even his starved
And showing bones or his father's
Pending suicide could persuade me
To do otherwise; just one turn of phrase
Can haunt you in gruesome, never-ending ways.
I'd trade places in hell if it meant relief
For that poor boy's beaten soul, so he
Can quit reading my mind to punish himself
And find some relief from empty regret.
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