My special gun cannot
sleep.
My gun is black steel and
cold as a stone.
My gun talks to itself in
the wee hours.
It has a soul.
It is lonely.
It dreams about hitting
the bull's eye,
Never missing.
Bam-bam-bam-bam, rapid fire.
The smell of gunpowder
Lingers over the dusty
street
After a Western shootout.
One bullet through the
heart of a terrorist.
Mother approves.
My special gun is Mama's
hero every time.
The third eye of the moon
Opens in my gun's hypnagogic
vision.
The moon is smiling down
on the planet.
Smiling tenderly into a
little pond.
A wave silently crossing
the pond
Lifts the face of the
moon.
Something sliding under
the surface
Is pushing the water up.
Turbulence followed by
stillness.
My gun sleeps.
Goodnight my special
gun.
(Article changed on December 21, 2015 at 20:10)
