Pistol Cold

By  | October 1, 2011 | Filed under: Poetry

The pistol cold against my skin
I pull the trigger, the bullet enters in.
My head jerks back, a flash of light,
then such peace, as black as night.

Followed by a swirling mist, a coloured haze,
which way to go, I’m in a maze,
no need to worry, it’s all done for me,
never once in life did I feel so free.

Looking down I see my body there,
I’m facinated, and have to stare,
so detatched and free of worldly ties,
my spirit soars towards the skies.

Of what importance was my life,
I fathered some children, abandoned a wife.
Tried and tried as much as I could,
to be friendly and helpful and most times good.

Yet it seemed no matter how I tried,
so many against me, I often cried;
I fought so much to be just me,
but never once found harmony.
Expected to abide to the rank and file,
I never found enough time to smile,
it was like swimming strong against a stream,
my fifty years was but a dream.

But now a new start in some distant place,
where no-one knows my unknown face.
What form I’ll take I do not know,
I feel myself begin to grow.

One body disintergrates within a tomb,
another embodied within someones womb.
In nine months time I can start again,
you know I rather hope I’ll be the same.

Perhaps this time I’ll learn to cope,
for life could be good, I feel some hope,
thank God for this chance to try once more,
I really feel quite secure.

As my new body forms, my mind grows dim,
I can’t remember who I’ve been,
or where I was or from whence I came.
Just know I’m warm, and loved again.

FromĀ rockpoetry.co.uk


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