Fallen

"Do it," it whispers.
"One throw and you're done."
The entire sky glows
a heavy heavy blue,
maintaining its azure hue
by a thin moonlight margin.
The dark clings
to her cloak;
sinks its teeth into the
fabric and won't let go.

Fingers slide along the
cold, watery, folded metal.
Each twitch of the hand
leaves a vacuous path
strewn with the bodies
of split particles:
dust cleaved in two.

A quiet snore
renews the purpose
of this night.
And she steps forward,
hopping over the boards
that creak and moan
from advanced arthritis.

"A nick would do it,
or even a slight tap,"
the poison can seep
through layers of skin.
She was well within
the customary range,
but she again steps forward,
drawn in from the dark
to the light laying in bed.
"Don't!" It screams
from its seat in her mind,
but she knows there
could be no turning back;
she had broken the rule:
had glanced upon his face.

His skin glows in
the tranquil light:
features softened
by a gentle sleep.
Upon his face lies
the evidence of the
presence of innocence.
Tears drop from the
silent, velvet hood.
The knife finds purchase
in hard flesh, and it tears.

The assassin fell dead
at the foot of the bed
of the boy who ended it all