Mercy

I killed Her; yet never
told anyone about it
until yesterday.

(Well, not entirely true.
My best friend knew.
Though sometimes I wonder
if He’s forgotten by now.)

I killed Her. The thought
of the fact, that I held
Her life in my hands,
and it was She who wanted
Me to end it.

Not that there was no fear
in Her eyes; Her years of
faith only ever more
true because the face of
its currency could be flipped
to the tail end of permanently
attached doubt.

She didn’t really want
to die. Yet She did want
Me to kill Her.

Cornered in the prison
of a Body that knew nothing
but tremors, or rigidity.
Yet knowing, that My fears
that there might be nothing more
to Her, that Her departure
might really be final,
was no idle speculation.

Ivory towers can be real.
Especially as they crash down.

And the debris winds round
to the same place:

No one will ever ask
more of you; or give more.

Sometimes I imagine
someone will ask Me what
it’s like, to hold Life
in your hands. And dead
Words, from rotting
Shakespeare, and his fictitious Hamlet,
come roaring forward:

“I prithee, take thy fingers
from my throat:
For I have something in me dangerous
Which let thy wiseness fear …”

HOLD … OFF … THY … HAND …

But I’m just insane, inane;
talking to Myself.

Because, through Her fears,
Her words were:
“What thou wilt do,
do quickly.”

I killed her, what seems like
so long ago, but told someone about it
yesterday; the Hamlet in me,
manufactured spirit or no,
challenging that Laertes to something
like mortal combat.

Coldly communicating the question:
If I can kill for love, how hard
would it be for Me to act
on hate?

Not hard at all.

If not
worth it.