100 Yards
There. That's the spot.
Not much distance
when you look what's it's not.
Not more than a thought
a quick action for sharp reflexes
a hundred m.p.h to nought.
I could have made it I'm sure
but my senses were dulled
impaired to the core.
And the impact was dire
mangled and motionless
consumed in smoke and fire.
100 yards, tire track streaks
I keep returning to the crime
it's been haunting me for weeks.
A tear rolls down to the road
regret far more bitter to swallow
guilt, a grenade worlds to explode.
As I take each small step now
I realise nothing is the same
it'll live with us all somehow.

© .Garry Saunders