Words Play

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.