The world looks like
a comic book,
waiting for someone
to splatter blood
and gore all over
the panels.

The world is white,
pure and silent,
if only for
a
moment

Leftover snow muffles
the oncoming traffic.
I do not hear
the minivan full of
unsuspecting children
and a mother
(who has not
slept in weeks because
her husband is
sleeping with the maid)
rolling down the hill
toward my feeble body.

The impact makes no
sound. Also quieted by
nature’s purest
precipitation.

The gore and the fresh
blood the people wanted
spills across the old snow.
I’m left there to bleed
out in a ditch.

It’s cold,
but I don’t mind.