Our Little Hero

I tell a midnight textile theft tale,

Mr. Sticky other body member,

Outside they remain

But fingers stick to stick sticking in

To sneak out my clothes through windowpane.

Done time and time again

 to be done once upon a time again:

But for ascending descending

 of my brand-new machete...

Mr. Sticky: away he ran:

with a body member dismembered,

Leaving behind a stick, sticking to sticky fingers.

A bloody trace of a scape goat escape race.

5am, 5 years later; after many days

In dead cold shiver I sudden awake

Make my bone violently shake 

To see Mr. Sticky face to face,

Tears streaming down his face:

Do you recognize this face?

He says,

One amputated hand,

Done severe harm I retrace.

The other hand, with firearm showcase:

"You would have been dead today,

But as i stepped in to take your life away,

Your 5 years old son ran towards me,

Giving me the warmest embrace,

Make my stone-cold heart melt away."

 

I heard with tear streaming my face,

Even my heart break,

Even with arm amputated,

Love yet left health in a heart,

Sick of bitter hatred.

Just a touch of love above all,

Like healing palm full of Gilead balm,

Bound in the embrace of an innocent child.