The evil(monk), (un)holy man
in possessive, possessed freedom
shed his shadow on these walls,
spread toxic medicine
to a desperate mother’s heart,
seized the scepter, with a guise
of divinity, healing gifts
ruled with demon fire eyes;
grainy photographs show so well
his lusty grabbing.
Minty satisfaction
shocked our veins when we descended
into that palace basement;
Wax figures seemed to parody
the planning in that darkened room
Madeira and cakes,
Cyanide-laced
Enough for six men
left him laughing.
Crumbs in his tree-like beard
unaware, he spewed
lewd jokes, his tried forte
on wide-eyed assassins,
nobles choked by
failure to succumb;
some inhuman power
proved the poison harmless juice.
In
frantic
disarray chaos
a heart-pounding
twenty-something vigilante
Fired on the hairy barrel chest
of the peasant giant. Breath releases.
Fists unclench.
It worked.
(Until he woke up
In manic rage).
Lather, rinse repeat,
defeat was not an option.
Another bullet tamed the demon
long enough to heave his oak tree body
into roaring breakers of the Neva,
that river emblem of
Motherland power.
Rasputin
breathed his last
slicing breath,
lethal knife of ice water
(unbeknownst to his dangling consciousness)
and abated in the silent
winter freeze.
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