God's Great Dust Storm

Dedicate this poem to a creature that I killed about a month back. I just remember the face he made as soon as I ran him over. He looked at me from afar as if he was already crossing the River of Styx. You want to know what he said? He said thank you brother. We men are wretched things. Not caring if we kill a street rat or a possum. Who cares right? It's a disgusting and ugly animal. I beg to differ. It hurt me in a way that I haven't felt before. The guilt of living with blood on my hands. This is my poem dedicated to him.

I remember like it was yesterday,
Driving late at night from work, listening to my new favorite band Katzenjammer's only religious song on their latest album,
The windows down, looking up at my lunar mother as I turned down my block,
From afar I saw the shadowy image of one of God's nocturnal creatures, crossing the street without a care in the world,

Continuing my drive home, I pass by neighbors sitting on the trunk of someone's car, smoking cigarettes and staring into my car as if to see if I'm someone they knew,
I've reached a euphoria only few have reached,
having a near-life experience like Tyler Durden from "Fight Club", until death crossed my path,
God's nocturnal creature, draped in white and black, stopped at the curb and turned around,

For just a moment he turned his head and gazed into my eyes as I drove towards him, reflecting the Grim Reapers image with his eyes, shined from my headlights,
No fear no distractions, he chose me for a reason,
That reason was for me to send him to the afterlife,
Escaping God's great dust storm,

No more hunting for food in the depths of night like his mother did before him,
Or hiding from predators that hunt him every night,
All that soon to be taken away by my unexpected hand,
THUMP!,

Katzenjammer hit their highest note when I banished him from this world,
Magnifying the pain I felt,
A hand on my mouth, tears in my eyes, my tongue removed, and the Angel of Death in my passenger seat, I am in disbelief,
Why did this have to happen?

Tears won't bring him back, nor prayers,
Just the hope that he is in a better place,
playing with his relatives, rough-housing like he use to do back when he was a baby,
I just wrote this poem to tell you I am sorry and I hope you found peace.