poetry

A Hitman

He staked out the target, 

cased her moves,
chased a chaser,
no intent to follow rules.
Precise directions were given,
in precision to this hit.
Holding his trusty scope,
still feet away,
zooming in much closer with hopes,
of there being no delays.IMG_20170328_195024_613
In a hair pin left,
shifting in degrees IMG_20170328_195008_967
to the right,
initiating the target’s request,
to link up,
on this night.
Distinct coordination starting
on his back,
triggering an acute try,
to catch off guard tears,
in the target’s watchful eyes.
This hit was at the hip, as he whispered through tight lips,
he was indeed a hitman, making that clear without hints.
In this market I take charge of the target’s body into my hands,
while perks are given, a casual aquaintence, but the payment still stands.
Soon it was yelled,
to get it,
hit it, again,
take it by suprise, were the cries, that were going accordingly,
to his plans.
As a warm spray hits, he continually, shoots, piercing between walls until they’ve caved,
not behaved, craved vengeance to besiege, the haze.
Grabbing hold, drenched, twitching, and writhing,
seeking it’s small death, without even trying.
The Hitman was thrilled,

by yet,

another kill,
as new contract obligation’s,
await his presence, to be fulfilled.

By Tamara Dorsey-Moore

Poking a little fun at the Game heads
Thinker on the Loose
Copyright©

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