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By Mauurya Desai

As the adrenaline rush mellowed, I realized it is done

The dark deed in the height of night, to procure the morning sun

The trigger pulled; my hand taken aback by the recoil

He is finally dead, the one immortal Robert Boyle

He lived when my grandfather was born, he lived when my son died as well

He also lived through revolutions, famines, surplus, wars and dried up wells

By the time he reached ninety, he lost all curiosity in the world

He had seen everything, all the world’s secrets unfurled

He was the epitome of pessimism, most of which he projected onto me

Mortifying me for a very narcissistic reason; he was against who I wanted to be

I wished to be rich, by hard work, faith and a chunk of good luck

Boyle believed success was a myth, with only bad luck I should be struck

He remained to my misfortune, his existence as long as any adage

He would’ve lived for more, if not cut short by my rage

I decide to take my pain away, to make sure Robert is to hell blown

To ensure Boyle isn’t on the lips, but exclusively on rough stone

My revolver palmed comfortably, the index on the loaded curve

In the dingy night, Robert Boyle’s penance in pleasure I serve

His head drops down, his eyes focused on the gaping hole

I hope he realizes it’s a consequential damage of his actions, he’ll not hurt my ego henceforth.

By Mauurya Desai

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