Fatalist Logic

Cold metal against flesh, metallic taste lingering on the tongue

Tension wired to a point of extreme as the hair trigger sits upon its own fine wire of tension

Each chamber a harbinger, each harbinger an angelic shadow of deaths grim promise, a bullet tipped with memories is far deadlier than mere lead

The quizzical logic of a fatalism wrapped in the singular word… ‘Why’

Why live, why suffer, why indeed

Two voices beckon, two promises as damned as the bleak winter of a mind consumed by the foreboding of a singular word ‘Why’

Angelic tones sing of life in a tone of happiness that has been depressingly denied, a tone of life that casts a ghastly projection of death’s own grip in the form of a shadowy scythe

The other voice casts a longer reach of wanting gloom, an insidious hint of venom in every over pronounced word that creeps from the cracks of a smile so sly, words of death in purer form

And so a choice remains

Metallic vibrations of the hammer cocked

A barrel loaded with a carrion curse memory to end a joke called life

A trigger pulled

Or a gun withdrawn

A second to decide

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