Red Mist
by Iain Muir
It starts with such a small thing,
Some real or perceived slight.
The rest is time to incubate,
Think it over in the night.
Is that what they really think of me?
Who the hell do they think they are?
It takes a single sleepless night
For things to go too far.
Comes the office the next morning,
And some new imagined sin.
You're reaching for a weapon,
And the red mist closes in...
© 2005 Iain Muir
Iain Muir lives (most of the time) in a town on the
shores of Botany Bay. He tries to write science fiction, fantasy, and
poetry in between catching flights to consult with clients.
Occasionally he tries to work out what he did in his last life to
deserve this one – then a tsunami wipes out half of SE Asia
and he shuts up.
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