Cocked and fired.
No one speaks, just screams and shots ring out.
Echoes longer than the lives they leave.
Breathing shallows behind fractured ribs,
that sit under ripped up tissues, broken skin.
Limbs flinch and cling to nearby things,
As though they are life itself.
Lids blink, sightless lenses blacken,
All things pass...
Sure footed, stepping forth,
As doors swing and bring new prey,
A swaying barrel placed the way of shadows and fired.
A blaze, smoking guns, final movements,
A twitch and darkness comes at last,
Peace; shattered again by running feet.
Dust and smoke in sunkist glass.
Portholes in doors, framed in silver,
Reinforced wire windows see passing danger,
Bare silent witness to savage delight.
The count is Seven,
Lucky for some and not for others.
Table top cover, heads and tails, chancing silence
And hoping the violence abates.
Crate paper presentatations on bloody hole ridden walls,
Small fingers pull triggers, pouring wrath on hallway runners.
Distant sirens howl and banshees call.
No one speaks.