I think of murder
And I think,
Am I above it or just far away?
Is it beneath me or just not in me?
Or perhaps I’m mistaken
And murder is well within me,
Lurking in my being
Like some skittish imp
Hovering nervous as a finger
A hairs breadth over the trigger
Of a chain reaction of circumstances.
Or instead of this and me being above it
Is it somehow above me,
Like some club of heroes
I cannot join for lack of courage?
I guess all I know for sure
Of my location
In murders great divide…
Is my cringing scared reflection,
Of a victim in your eyes.