It was a mercy killing.
I took the weapon in clenched fist.
I looked directly at the thing,
the limping, dumb, weeping thing,
crawling each day through,
mercifully numb, in darkness,
in distress and in denial.
I raised the weapon, struck
coldly
at its fainting form.
And from its death throes,
as it thrashed and bled,
I recognised
that after it was dead
it still could rise again,
no more a dying marriage,
but an understanding bond,
straighter, clearer.
Honesty beat strongly at its core
and in this life
we could not ask for more.
Janice Windle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pains-and-regrets-collection-a-mercy-killing/
