Give me a gun and I’ll show you what it means
to end a life.
You haven’t chased the bullet to its source:
the broken, bleeding, pumping iron drive—
mechanical—to stop the things that buzz
inside our brains;
the need to be alone; the need to sleep;
a wish, oblong, that all this noise would cease.
Encased in steel, the bullet seeks a bone
to snap clean through.
I’d watch life drain away, I have the strength
to grasp the silent trigger, just a tug
enough to end a man or—flintlock, match—
to set the world on fire.
A Broken Sonnet on the 2nd
