richard windimere

It’s time, said the voice whis’pring inside his head.
It’s time for the pain to subside.
It’s time to be free from the dark and the blue,
“It’s time,” Richard Windimere cried.

He’d loaded the gun, checked it once, checked it twice,
Every day for a weekend or two.
Paid his bills, fed the cat, wrote the note, swept the floor
All was left was that for him to do.

The bloggers, on morrow, will guess and surmise
What’d caused an old man so to be
A killer, a mur’drer, to slay such a crowd,
The total: thirteen, and then he.

The letter behind was reviewed sixty times
Even though it quite plainly said:
“All I wanted from life was for someone to say,
“I mattered more ‘live than when dead.”

The families of victims will damn Windimere
For the sorrow and pain he has wrought.
They will weep for the loss, for the still, for the dead,
For the peace the old man finally bought.