He has been wronged. They'll wish he wasn't. A poem that feels of prose fiction.
Draped from his shoulders, the coat shrouds his body in darkness from this dire situation,
As he points two nickel-plated pistols out, surrounded by those that had wronged him.
He recalls the blood-drenched sheets on his bed, that portal to his dark transformation.
They'll pay for what they did, sealing their fate to wallow within the dead waters of Styx.
Calm and collected, he is always calm, even in the worst times, a lake on a breeze-less day,
But his blood boils with the rage of death, motivating a determined man beyond his limits.
They had raided his home, cockroaches from every corner, that beat him to a bloody pulp.
This venomous cult he had been chasing for months had all but flipped the script.
They had followed this time, beating him within inches of death incapable of stopping them.
Crucified, forced to watch as his wife was violated; his child tormented; ending with murder.
Carving symbols in their stomachs and jabbing their hearts with three knives, six stabs each.
Their shrieks deafening, thunder echoes in a canyon. All is gone, he will repay the favor.
Forty-three hours ago he was let free from the wall, dropping his badge on the crimson floor.
They pulled the Houdini act before, not this time, no escaping his hellish wrath.
Poseidon's rage in the seas is a mere child in a kiddie pool when held in comparison.
He is the hurricane that will sink every spot of land and kill all living things within his path.
One sweat drop rolls down his face, when it drips he opens fire, never missing a shot.
Every bullet connects with head or chest, but not enough for all whom offended.
Click...Click...Click...Click...out of ammo, still surrounded, this is the big finish he thought.
Revealing his means of destruction the whole city would know, lighting his last cigarette, it ended.