He loaded the magazine of his pistol
And sat on his couch with an empty mind
The room which he hadn’t left for days
Was quiet, still, and smelled of heat with the windows down
He engaged the chamber and pointed the barrel under his chin
While his ears echoed
He was afraid to rest his finger on the trigger
So he ejected the magazine and the round
Then he placed the pistol on the coffee table
“Perhaps tomorrow” he whispered softly
Then he stood up and opened a window
And breathed for the first time in days
No comments:
Post a Comment