The Gangster

It is hard for him to

Resist lighting more leaves,

Exercise urges for incendiarism,

Replicate that first spark,

From which he gasps.

Despite many years’ routine,

Difficulty still arises,

Yet the discomfort, unsteadiness,

Tremors in his chest, they nourish,

Inflame the anger essential to succeed.

Success not necessarily to inhalation;

Rather to a mission,

From a hermetic honcho who

Seeks obedience, and thus,

Eradication of any who resist.

It isn’t a fruitless life;

For a severed strand of hair,

A loss of dignity and control,

There are provided more leaves

To once again replicate the spark.

Behind him, filthy scattered puddles:

Company fills the sidewalk.

As cars pass, the headlights seem to

Send shudders throughout the group;

They feel their stares tangibly.

Each of their eyes,

Darting down every alleyway;

They know what they’re looking for:

Thin, yet with external vibrancy;

Internal sorrow, woefulness.

It’s very difficult to not

Be able to distinguish

Such a unique figure,

Slumped in a peaceful comatose

Beneath a bevy of toms.

The action comes so quickly,

It’s hard to detect even a flutter

Before it’s certain that there can’t be;

With a loud pop,

            The leaves were within their grasp.