The Killer.

"Why would you kill me?"

Asked the pastor to the thief,

"Is it because you're poor,

Or because you have no belief?"

"Or do you do it,

So your table has food,

Or does my life depend,

On convenience and mood?"

The thief said, "Father,"

"I know that I sin,

But you know not the turmoil,

That I hold within."

"I was not always this man,

I could not kill even a bee,

But one night changed my life,

With the death of my family."

"Since then I believe,

That there cannot be a god,

And for preaching in his name,

You are no more than a fraud."

The pastor said, "Son,"

"Maybe life is not as you see,

Just because your love died,

Does not mean you cannot be free."

"You may choose to murder,

Loot, steal and kill,

Or you could try and listen,

To your own free will."

"True," replied the killer,

And brought the gun to a head,

He squeezed on the trigger,

And the pastor lay dead.

"My child never sinned,

And nor did my wife,

Then tell me this father,

Why didn't the lord spare their life?"

"In His name you spoke,

In your preachings you lied,

I find it ironic then,

That with his teachings you died."

The killer stepped outside,

From church and Lord's home,

Again he realised,

That he was truly alone.

He reached for the paper,

That he held in his hand,

And he crossed another name,

As he cleansed the land.

He stepped in the rain,

Slowly he moved on,

Another preacher had to pay,

Before the break of dawn.