I suppose He tore another page from The Book today. . .
let is slide between sweaty fingers,
slice the tip,
right there under the nail,
so the pain would ebb and flow,
waves of electricity with each
a heartbeat set to leap into
as the blood dripped like heavy sealing wax.
Gifts unwrapped and
His will is a shiny, sparkling,
It’s fully loaded and
set to go
right through the forehead
with the little blonde curl.
It’s His will,
His gift. . .
but your bullet.
You can join in this prompt at the Creativity Carnival, here.