Poem -



It was five minutes a game, and yet
within these smoking, bleeding walls
hours could flee, hastily from the numbing
taps of heavy artillery. You studied
till you found the right balance for
your trigger. This trigger could do
 tricks. This stiff thumb trigger could
get you killed. This worn-pink unleaded
trigger would have you checking your
bone. This lip-bitten trigger held a filled
 euphoric clip. It was always possible,
once emptied, to release the cold dead
grip. The discolored thumb, frustrated
but triumphant, could now rest its veins. But
I’ve since held this image of you, the way a
reluctant child holds a pistol, polished of guilt,
 and you choose to shed new blood, to stare
 and smile faintly at a melted reflection, to
 have the color pulled and squeezed into your
war-torn grip and released-----------------------
- Elton Caine


Log in or Become a Member to comment.


Jamie Crawford

Can you subscribe to my bands YouTube channel please?