sitting at his desk, overlooking the city
there was a knock at the door -- this wouldn't be pretty
he let them in, and was met with the business end
of a shotgun loaded with bullets -- this guy wasn't his friend
you have come quite a way, lincoln, frank said with a smirk
this seat might have been yours, but you ate the dirt
i came to reclaim what was taken from me, he said
so when he sat down, the muzzle never left his face where it laid
you got me messed up, lincoln continued, baring his teeth
if it weren't for you, i wouldn't have to leave
but you ruined the city, frank responded slyly, lips curling up
and frankly ask me if i give a fuck
lincoln shot the man right there, sending his body through the window
the cops would be waiting but frank would meet with them sooner down below
YOU ARE READING
this fantastical world is too surreal (poetry #5)
Poetry"a rustle crackles underneath jackboots crossbow tight in hand she breathes one final breath before he pulls the trigger" you know the drill
