Murder

Shakespearian style sonnet.

Into the night he ran

Crimson blood soaked his hands.

He thinks back to where it all began

His deed was done, under command.

“Was it worth the price?”

He wondered aloud.

“Or will this forever be a vice?”

And as he sat, his head was bowed.

For this deed would forever haunt him

Only demise could bring his peace

Until then any happiness shall remain dim.

And as time goes by his guilt does increase.

But that’s the irony in such dark deeds

The ones who fulfill them aren’t often fiends

Author's Note

I wrote this because I was bored, but I'd still love to have your feedback. Thanks.