Every Broken Thing

Warrant Execution
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight


Warrant Execution

                     
                     O
ne day I’ll rise and declare this
                     all played out. The bursting shell,
                     mushroom of lead piercing skin,
                     tearing lung until even breath
                     subsides. Not like some director’s scene –
                     where they explode back, impact
                     wall and motion that last request.
            
                     Here, color’s absence betrays no blood, just 
                     frosted glare of thought expired. The regretful
                     glance, neurons trapped deep within the spine.
                     Arms outstretched, unsecured, as if
            
                     to retain that final gasp. Now, reporters
                     mull the scene, claim their rights, scream God’s
                     intonations. The last word. But it doesn’t end
                     here. Night.
                     And waiting for night to end.