Assassin

He slips through the night					
On feet made of wind.						
He hides in the shadows					
Of which are his kin.	
					
He is a deadly weapon						
Never seen nor heard.						
His dance of death						
As silent as the whispered word.				

But a shadow in passing,					
His victim unaware						
That his life line will soon be broken,			
Cut down like a hair.						
								
As he unclasps his weapons,							
They gleam in the light.
They are but the tools,
He shall use this night.

For he is the weapon
He is death’s grace.
He finds beauty and knowledge
In deaths welcome embrace.

Then he sheathes his weapons,
The tools of his trade,
Into the body of this man,
This man he has betrayed.

He leaves the body there,
Right where it be.
And slips into the night
For an assassin is he.

			Jim Aman

    Source: geocities.com/scasplte2