The married man sat in his chair
He looked down and ruffled his hair
He stood up and took a short walk
He picked up a gun, and prepared to stalk
He left the room, and spotted his wife
He raised up the gun and ended her life
He looked around, his daughter was watching
All she could see was the red gushing splotching
A siren arose, and crash went the door
He was tackled to the floor
He did not fight back, he did not strain
He just watched as his daughter processed this in her brain
She looked at him, tears in her eyes
And asked only one word, “why?”
The prevarications for our dark sides tend always to bring us to that question.
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