Sunday, November 09, 2008
Once again, the leaves drift down
and I sit in silence, thinking of love and loss.
I look at the gun, and think, this...
This...thing...is the last thing he touched.
He could have touched me, yet he chose this...thing
Of steel and violence and death.
I am lost.
The sun shines down, the moon glimmers,
The stars twinkle...
I am unreal, suspended, waiting.
How could he sit right in front of me and
Load a gun and
Get up and walk out the front door and
Kneel down by a tree and
Brace the butt of the gun against the tree and
Place the muzzle against his temple and
What demons and darkness did he hide from me through years?
Barricaded in my stone house,
And the acorns roll down the roof