Snipers run silent on streets: point and aim.
A target, the boy – his blood flies wild.
Lightning bolts rain hell from rooftops; their game?
To kill before being killed. Poor child.
The mice move on. Victim number two. It.
Her. Suspicious eyes. Bang! Bang! Red.
A baby wails in pain. Its heart was hit.
Both souls soar high towards heaven ahead.
The locus spread. Bodies and bodies pile.
Point and aim. The thunderclouds move for show.
Little girl, the target from a mile.
Her face says something that you didn’t know.
She pulls a gun from the heel of her boot.
The hunter now hunted. Point. Aim. Shoot.
This is a sonnet I wrote for Grade 11 English a few years ago. It’s not perfect, as in the some of the syllables and counting are off.