There was something familiar / about the way you milled, accelerated / when that little playground rock / was first upturned
There was something familiar about the way you milled, accelerated when that little playground rock was first upturned,
how you galloped panicked when the crunch of an unjust sky hand picked the first one off at random.
How predictable, pathetic your dash for new shelter, trying to fit under, in, behind for a few heartstopping fractions of a second
before terror compelled you to make a futile scurry for ten more seconds of life.
Victim, you had my slender thumb in your destiny. I merely spectated those final out-of-mind sick-with-fear moments, myself a puppet of life-isn't-fair.
I stuffed your crushed remains into a tiny hole in a patio stone and killed again.
I didn't hesitate, though I knew myself what it was to scurry
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