I am not a poet. I don’t write poetry, I am more for prose. But last weekend, I went to a poetry reading where an old friend of mine was reading her work (which was excellent, by the way) and when I came home, I randomly had the first two lines of my own poem in my brain. Not willing to let any bit of inspiration go to waste, I ran with it and came up with this. The characters are not my own and will no doubt be familiar to numerous people (I have tagged them below) as well as centering around a well-known short story. I am hoping to submit it to a book to raise money and awareness for some special causes but I would like some feedback first, to see if there are any big changes I should make. So if you read this, please leave a comment letting me know what you think!

Not So Different

We’re not so different, he and I,
One a soldier, one a spy,
One an assassin, a hunter by trade,
The other a doctor, deliverer of aid.

Both in the service of country and Queen,
Sent home by a bullet and scandal unseen,
Both returned home with wounded pride,
Seeking new purpose, this Jekyll and Hyde.

He made an acquaintance, a man of repute,
Whose intelligent workings I cannot dispute,
They formed an alliance, unlikely but strong,
At his side he had hope of a place to belong.

My sharp-shooting talents had not been ignored,
Soldier turned mercenary; trust, my reward.
A chance at a glimpse into London’s great mind,
This criminal maestro, this one of a kind.

A shadowy game between the two,
Schemes were plotted and foiled anew,
And all the while we lay in wait,
To clean up the mess they were bound to create.

Miles were travelled to lead us to here,
This wide-open landscape, this valley of fear,
We watched as he sauntered, so devil-may-care,
But all of us sensed there was death in the air.

I was ordered to wait, concealed in a nook,
So there I remained above that rich brook.
But the doctor retreated, kept in the dark,
Denied the duty of playing his part.

The thought of failure never entered my head,
As I witnessed them fall, my gut filled with dread.
Then to see that wretch crawl up from the edge,
My blood did boil and I made this pledge:

For as long as I lived, I would track this man down,
Not a care for his talents or worthy renown.
Then I spied as he fled the dear doctor’s return,
And was struck by his sorrow, a sickening burn.

I wondered right then, if he were me,
The lengths he would go to to make the pain flee.
Would he punish the villain and undo the good?
In seeing his grief I believe that he would.
The pain that he feels is akin to my own,
But the tears that he sheds are but his alone.

Both in the shadows of two great men,
One armed with a rifle, the other a pen,
Tools to avenge the ones they once served,
Yet only the one is justly deserved.

We’re not so different, he and I,
Both are mourners, one is a lie.