Murder Becomes Her

This night might be    
my perfect opportunity    
The person I wish to kill    
sits immersed in thought    
For our moment    
a careless escapee from the world    
deaf to the creak of a stair    
or the whistle of a hungry blade    
defenceless prey    
for any determined assassin    
   
She stares aimlessly    
down across the Avenue    
The lamps are lit    
but the curtain's not yet drawn    
the outline of her head    
a perfect silhouette      
to tease a trigger's hair    
One squeeze    
then cold, clean, death    
   
Too good for her, you murmur    
if torture is surely deserved    
Bring on slow, cruel, pain    
inflicted in biblical proportions    
then witness her withering screams    
Let her plead    
on what's left of her knees    
for the mercy of her own death    
 
Enough of your talk    
I must act swiftly to seal her fate    
before some fickle destiny    
prickles those pretty ears    
lest the clocks lean closer on midnight    
and whisper murder to the moon  
   
But you may depend  
without reservations or fear  
upon my own assurance    
that she shall burn  
a thousand times more brightly    
than the quaintness of your curiosity    
which even now    
compels you to wonder    
Who is this monster and what of her crimes?    
When why, of course...    
it's me.