The Assasin
The sharp point of life,
The tip of knife,
The smooth slide of the blade on the neck,
The flow of the blood.
In an unending flood,
The reddened hand,
Casually wiped with a tissue.
The soft breathing,
The cool touch of revolver,
The sharp click of the silencer.
Striding towards the end of the room,
A slight smile,
The coldness in the eyes,
The eerie hush,
The squeal of the tyres,
She opened the door put her bag in the backseat,
And shotgun she rode.
Flashed a quick smile at the driver.
“Did you finish the job sweetheart?’ he asked,
And she winked.
And without a backward glance drove on,
Held hands.
And .......... crashed.
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