by Robert J. S. T. McCartney
All these scenes I’ve painted black,
To hide the pain, I’ve yet to have attack—
Me; nay, us, for the day will eventually come,
An assassin lying in waiting, where it shall strike from?
They say to “go in faith” and “take this tome,”
Tis often true, tragedy strikes close to home.
Where I’ve found myself on my back,
crippled from a fall; an attempt to snap—