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The Smoke Of My Handgun

this 10 mm handgun made in Austria
is in my hand.
My coming days are curious
say frightened about what i shall do next with it.
My temple is calm.
My head is full like a cup filled with hot water.
There is no taste of coffee
It is 4 o'clock in the morning
And the streets in this town are all empty
Of people.
There is the possibility of using this handgun
To kill those insane witnesses
Dragging me to a crime that i have not done
Though deep within i want to do it.
Kill! kill! Kill! Shoot them with all the bullets
Of this Gun
This is what my mind is screaming.

My cousin is afraid of the possibilities of
My life.
I am not. I am certain. There is no way that a smoke
From this gun should come out
Without a Reason.
It is fragile, and so light, and Like all truths
No hand can capture it
And hold it forever.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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