He was a fool fooled; like most men, sense is lost in lust. The visual hides the intent as the visceral is masked by beauty; the murderess is made up as lover with lips poised to impart the caress of a purple aconite kiss. Hook. Line. Sunken.
She breathed a heavy thick sigh. It was done. Asleep and dying, she left him for the last time.
Revenge doesn’t settle the heart, and whilst it quells the rage in its noisy place the dull ache is amplified by absence and realisation. It was the price to pay as justice has little compassion for the judge or the condemned.