An empty chamber;
Soon to be filled
With gun smoke
And all the crimson reveries
Of humanity gone awry…
Or is this just the way we are?
An invisible trigger
Made corporeal by the smoke
That seeps from the very pores of your skin.
There is sits, unwavering,
Floating on the heads
Of a thousand burning aristocrats
With their democracy so tainted
And their heads so easily filled
With nothing more than this empty visage.
What is the bullet?
Is it the words of men?
Nay, the words of men are useless,
They are forgotten the moment they are uttered
And are merely weak expressions
Of an even weaker soul.
What is the trigger?
Is it the ones we have killed?
Nay, the ones who are trampled
Allow themselves to be;
They place the blame
On a world far out of their reach
And with deceitful tongues
They draw forth their pity,
Leeches to the soul.
What is the smoke?
Is it the breath we release?
Yes my friend,
You have guessed this truth.
The very wind of our lungs
Fuels this monstrosity,
This revolver at our necks.
What is the gun?
This slowly burning pistol
Leaves a shadow on the ground,
A hazy specter of this weapon
And it seems to look mortal.
Can you see your own reflection?
It’s slightly fading in the smoke.
Along with ever other man’s.
It is this pride
That slowly turns in the chambers,
A poison waiting to be shot
Into the throat of this humanity.
Can anyone find the safety?
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Submission Name: Six Chambered Carbon Monoxide
