Array ( [sid] => 140692 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => The Bullet [time] => 2008-03-01 05:58:41 [hometext] => [bodytext] =>
Stuffed into the stomach-
Of the bulging rifle
It sits, as still as stone-
obediently waiting.

The boy fancied to be a writer
he itched to spill the earth
with purple joy and lather fans
in echoes of hope.
Yet for the dirt, swept across this land
he will fight
despite the razor sting
of a mother’s salty tears.

One by one they flew away-
rendering the steel chamber
empty, cold, lost-
and their friendship barely kindled
but the minuscule demons
shall have none of it.

Soaring- proudly through the dust,
their metallic jackets sparkle-
shimmering across the field
like drops of water
racing to quench the devils thirst.
And being far too conceited to miss
they flew with bright intentions
and gave his head a kiss.

The rest riddled calligraphy on his chest-
branding him destined for the earth’s
volcanic gut.
Leaving his soul submerged
within the rich-boiling blood
and drunken with the devil’s joy.

As for the bullet, having fulfilled
it’s duty with fanatic bravery,
it has been lifted by
the hands of angels.
Thus righteously serving
In the next
-Crusade for Justice.
[comments] => 1 [counter] => 154 [topic] => 73 [informant] => themonk [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => abstract ) Your Poetry Dot Com - The Bullet


The Bullet
Date: Saturday, 1st March 2008 @ 05:58:41 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: themonk

Stuffed into the stomach-
Of the bulging rifle
It sits, as still as stone-
obediently waiting.

The boy fancied to be a writer
he itched to spill the earth
with purple joy and lather fans
in echoes of hope.
Yet for the dirt, swept across this land
he will fight
despite the razor sting
of a mother’s salty tears.

One by one they flew away-
rendering the steel chamber
empty, cold, lost-
and their friendship barely kindled
but the minuscule demons
shall have none of it.

Soaring- proudly through the dust,
their metallic jackets sparkle-
shimmering across the field
like drops of water
racing to quench the devils thirst.
And being far too conceited to miss
they flew with bright intentions
and gave his head a kiss.

The rest riddled calligraphy on his chest-
branding him destined for the earth’s
volcanic gut.
Leaving his soul submerged
within the rich-boiling blood
and drunken with the devil’s joy.

As for the bullet, having fulfilled
it’s duty with fanatic bravery,
it has been lifted by
the hands of angels.
Thus righteously serving
In the next
-Crusade for Justice.


This poem is Copyright © themonk


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