Depression was
his vice
and the magic potion
from the pharmacy
wasn't loosening the grip.
He'd tried those pills--
first: with water
next: with bourbon,
but the demon played
in a loop of his mind
like a wicked hand of poker.
A flash of light,
the scream of tires,
and a sickening thud...
in his state of distraction
he'd never noticed her,
not until she lay
a broken butterfly
on the road.
Someone's child
who wouldn't live
to make it home...
and he, the assassin
speeding away
in a four door gun.
