© June 24, 2015. All Rights Reserved.
A lumberjack in the woods,
Sweating from the stress of shifts.
Working till blood from her nose floods.
Appalled, her hand, she lifts.
It’s raining; her workers won’t quit.
Water’s above her knees.
Splinters on her fingers are split.
Her chainsaw cuts down trees.
Her husband points at a scare and says,
“What’s that red dot on your head?”
Downward, she stares; her reflection stays.
Lightning strikes her husband dead.
Screaming, she drops her chainsaw,
Turning around in disbelief.
Blood’s pouring down his jaw.
There’s no chance of a relief.
Begging the heavens to help,
She lifts his head in her arms.
Startled, she hears a dogs yelp,
Above a cabin in charms.
The dog leaps from roof to roof,
To a Unitarian Church,
Dragging a leash screaming, “Woof!”
The owner’s in search.
She moves her husband to a tree,
Where their names are carved.
A kiss for his last memory.
Where lightning never starved.
He breathes facing a floodgate,
While blood prettifies his view.
She’s shot in the tibia with hate.
He’s shot in the cranium askew.
Promotions wander the woods.
Years strike for values alike.
Rewards given as canned goods,
From charity on bikes on strike.
A deer stares past her,
To a locomotive engine,
Sounding her as a killer,
But she’s a harmless minion.
She still has to pay her mortgage.
Resources are dwindling.
God has her hostage for marriage.
Acres of dreams matches her ring.
A goodwife not a housewife,
Lives a widow for work.
He was a ghostwriter in life,
And a breadwinner of a jerk.
Gossamer webs on her face.
When she wipes, flashlights shine.
They’re investigating the case.
She’s chopping the concubine.
They’ve searched her portmanteau,
Inside her home without her knowledge.
They’ve searched her revenue.
She’s a bookworm in college.
She’s a blithe workaholic,
Susceptible by money.
Gumshoes are slick,
With a guarantee.
One night, she looks downward.
She sees the red dot.
Traumatized, death’s preferred.
For she’s deeply distraught.
Jejune demands come forth.
The boss tries to attract.
She’s an empress of North,
Reincarnated with a pact.
In fact, he monkeyshines,
And befriends her tyke.
Birthday whines,
As leap year strike.
The quintessence of secrecy,
For the killer sees within.
Motion sickness so lovely,
Working her moppet’s twin.
Worked over her boss as a maharani,
The boss’s fired for her rage.
She has myeloma against a tree,
And a fired bullet at her rib cage.
A patroness to her poor, former boss,
For she works near his moonroof.
She’s aware of his cross;
A malison through his holy proof.
From a flophouse to maisonette,
To a mansion in the dark.
Black candles won’t upset.
Beside luck’s a bark.
No kith, but she has his ashes.
A lethargic gal working,
Knowing his gashes.
She’s busy, and now she’s lurking.
Daunting wishes, but the dot stays.
Unemployed with vigilance.
Fearless demise in a fake phase.
Breathless tasks so intense.
Isaiah Lawrence 