There Is a Gun Being Held Against My Head
There is a gun being held against my head,
and its silver surface transfers its cold.
These are dangerous grounds on which I tread.
In the beginning, tears running with dread,
I watched my life fade from glimmering gold.
There is a gun being held against my head.
"Broken and Damaged," the monster said
as the gun cocked in completing its scold.
These are dangerous grounds on which I tread.
Lightening held back as the gun remained dead,
and the trepidation never faded to one of old.
There is a gun being held against my head.
It will remind me for every day ahead
that the bullet is forever prepared to unload.
These are dangerous grounds on which I tread.
In years past, I thought it behind as I fled
from the impending bullet, but I wore a blindfold.
There is a gun being held against my head.
These are dangerous grounds on which I tread.
The Action of a Friend
Danger afoot and the one can't see it.
His face is turned one way, oblivious.
Little red pointer directed, a flit
directly above his right breast, devious.
The other one stares, eyes wide with horror.
The heart beats faster as fear controls.
No thought is given as his legs forward.
Two souls, only one matters in his goals.
The dead shot resounds in the deep silence,
and a blossom of torment spreads throughout.
The lead takes over, a savage virus,
and the dark red spreads as the life snuffs out.
A bullet taken, saves the intended.
One life broken, one soul apprehended.