The crime was never committed. Though the sentence was handed down.
It was life. Never having confessed for the deed and always unrepentant; he never gave the world a chance to explain its need for constant revenge. The possibility for parole existed only in the realm of misunderstood dreams and dark serenity of thought. Neither of which gave the Sun its yellow sheen.
Nor the peace of the deathly still; that demanded a sacrifice too extreme for the simple of heart.
The belief had departed and been replaced by fork and spoon.
Have a tacky Tuesday!
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