PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The door starts speaking in a whine as it slides slowly open,
Then in time, hits the white rubber hind.

In the doorway is a man with a rifle in his hands,
Holding two golden bullets and a bottle full of sand.

There's a sadness in the air,
Riding softly in the gust,
Being thrust from the fan,
Into my throat then to my gut.

Bloody footprints dot the room,
As he paces with his words.
Being uttered from his rotten lips,
I hear them trail the stairs.

He says "I started as a man i've slowly turned into a toy. I've been brainwashed into thinking all this killing is a joy. Not just the deadly or destructive, i've killed innocent and constructive. Because my free speech has been left behind, I slowly lost my thinking mind. I want to change, like war has changed, I used to feel tougher. Now the rich start wars for pride and oil while poor souls seem to suffer. Still, i'm a loyal dog and I have a job, so you know I cannot stutter.

Then he pours the sand and fires his hand.
With one bullet left for another.