THE SCIMITAR

By the Urban Poet

In dead of night he slowly weaves

through ginnels murky with rotting leaves

Unhurried gait becomes steady now

Then the pace increases as he cuts through town like a knife through butter

Inebriated vagrant lying in the gutter

 

A mysterious figure very much alive

but it's as if a poltergeist is passing by

Every nook and cranny, wall and railing

Covering distance without even failing to skip a beat

his destination will soon be within reach

 

“Lie low, lie low” is what they said

to rich Baker who's son was tragically dead, but retribution is what the Baker sought

So with a bag of silver a solution was bought to taste revenge so very sweet

as he retired to his bed for gainful sleep

 

The cowled figure continued on

in passageways dank that stank of beer

With smell of fear and stale urine

Oder now fading as he slowed right down

To fix upon a landmark emblazoned in his mind

 

With Baker now in peaceful repose

Snoring ripples vibrating through his nose

Lying in deep unmoving sleep

Not hearing spiral stairway creak 

With swiftness and stealth a deadly blow

A glint of light as white as snow

 

The Baker's son and Assassin dead

Now the Father's turn as he lay in bed

Curved blade not felt as it made its mark 

Mission accomplished by the Scimitar

From ‘Poetry Gold’ by ‘Rick’ Varden