Straining to hear the voice so dear.
Trapped in a cocoon of fear and doubt.
Why can't I hear her? What's my crime?
My mind drifts back to how it began.
Selling goods in the village market,
I made a life, simple, honest and humble.
I never considered what could happen.
Everyone kept a gun at their stand, you see.
Just a punk kid, maybe fifteen.
He pulls a gun, screams for my cash.
I recall in still motion,
my hand reaches the gun.
Two shots ring out, the people duck.
He and I fall in perfect time.
Our eyes meet, and the life passes out of his.
I hit the ground. Scream.
(I'm not sure where this started, where it went, or where it's going. It's a mystery to me. I doubt it's any good. I don't know what any of you think a good poem is, but it's my own, and at most, I'm neutral on this one. I post this because I can, and because maybe someone'll like it, hate it, or hopefully both. If you want to, go
ahead and continue it.) |
