The Sniper

A minute of shade against the pale skyline,
Stands the chosen wizard, the handiwork of Satan
Untamed upon his hand. He's the owner of now-time,
Him, a snake-charmer, the guardian of the key
To a lake of fire. Every single second means subtraction
Of some unknown, sleepy, foreign heartbeat,
Who drags in its own red-carpet parade
To shake hands with the Maker. But now look!
The crowd, like foaming waves, has begun drifting
And no one has an eye for the astray bird
Who shall shadow the clouds. It is his turn now:
An expert with a dark past of deer hunter
He sets free the swift hawk-eye of the bullet
To fall upon its prey. The last scene is now set:
Already upon the stage, the ultimate tragedian
Turns back; he shall return to his falconer of men.