The Winter days dragged long and weary
Penetrating cold congealed his once pure heart
The hurt he felt, humiliation now complete
His need for revenge, or pride at least, restored.
He sat and waited and counted off the days
Till then his moment kept at length
But time would come when he would strike
And hurt, and life would be undone.
No more he’d take from them the crumbs of fear
The lies of those who for so many so little cared
Would be swept aside as the truth so brightly revealed
No wrong he’d done, as die he now would, his conscience clear.