Step on it good and hard,
make sure it is dead.
Hope under heel,
grinding into powder.
Slide that knife across skin,
hard and deep to be sure.
In a ditch like a missing person,
Hope lies bleeding.
Salt that wound and burn it,
coagulating under your heat.
Blood and dirt combine,
this sickeningly sweet murder excites you.
Toss the weapons aside,
no caring if they're found.
Your murder was metaphorical,
no reprisals are forthcoming.