I heard the shots,
The cracks in the wind,
Approaching thuds and slugs,
Sounds of manmade thunder,
I felt the shrapnel pierce my lungs,
Iron colliding with rib and flesh,
White-hot and dire,
Exit-wound pending,
I felt the pavement on my face,
With my body bag colleagues,
Overseen by a man of ill intent,
Frigid eyes behind a pump action,
But I did not feel any fear,
Because it was on a silver screen,
A report of another tragedy,
On the world’s own streets,
On Plymouth’s own streets.
There was a young woman,
Red hair and a love of photos,
A young woman not quite right inside,
Led astray through foul circumstance,
Wallace was a bad guy,
Rifles for birthday gifts,
A hint from a sire in some lights,
She didn’t like Mondays,
Some new friends outside,
Not that they know it yet,
So load the cartridges,
Some Ruger fireworks to perk up the day,
Light up some innocent bodies,
Some school uniform party poppers,
Juice on the pavement,
Let’s all scream for Monday.
The smith sweats,
An armsworker,
Doing the work of shinigami,
Machining thanatos into steel,
Ore becomes death,
A masterwork,
An emotionless tool,
A cold weapon,
A true lifetaker,
A stygian masterpiece,
Harnessing thunder and hellfire,
The power of hades,
The power to take lives,
In one hand or two,
Exerting ones will through iron,
Stocks and smoking barrels,
Breathing fire and ash,
Charon on a bullet,
A life snuffed out,
The gunsmiths work complete,
Can he claim neutrality?
Does this artisan care whose life is ended?
Does this merchant burden himself with ethics?
Does this artist care how his art is wielded?
Is the dollar worth more than a life?
A young boy was born,
Rosy-cheeked innocence,
A young boy was brought home,
By beaming suburban parents,
A young boy began to play,
Mud and toy soldiers,
A young boy became a student,
Shy and introverted,
A young boy was bullied,
Beaten to tears,
A young boy continued to play,
Dark rooms and razor blades,
A young boy cried for help,
No help came,
A young boy began to crack,
His innocence beginning to fade,
A decision was made,
A young boy became an active shooter,
Clad in trenchcoat,
No more tears,
A young boy was shot dead,
By a good guy with a gun,
He was just a young boy.
WorldofHarley 