he whispers softly
to each bullet
reminding them of
their sacred purpose
he cleans and oils
his rifle with the
patient hands of a
practiced lover

who he was eroded
with every flash and
puff of cordite
until he and his
weapon were indistinguishable

he is a killer
the blood crusted
upon his hands
could drown an
entire village
the cries he heard
echo in his dreams
his bled out humanity
pooled in shadows
behind every soft step

the sharp retort of
a single shot
one of his lonesome
children fired off
into the clouds above
a guardian angel
to guide its brethren
home into the chests
of all his foes

was he young once
or had he always been
middle aged and filled
to the brim with hate
he could not recall
would not dwell on
the creature he had been

they come
hungry for vengeance
to tear his scrawny
body into strips

he whispers sweetly
to each bullet
gripping his rifle
in a loving embrace
one of these battles
would be his last
he hoped for an
unmarked grave up
in the hills
a fitting end for
a used up tool

he sighted down
watching the shapes
as they grew more
defined in the scope
he liked to see
the eyes of his victims
the shock
the wonder
the light as it dies

he wondered
for the thousandth time
did someone watch him
would he stare
bewildered at his fate
or happily grin
as it came to an end