Pistol
Cold
I wonder how it feels in the hand,
Cold metal,
Indifference,
The gatekeeper of my early departure,
I spin the cylinder over and over,
Relaxing,
Is almost the right word,
The small metal circle makes the tiniest,
Of imprints,
Upon my forehead,
The trigger is immovable,
Like a boulder,
My hands prespire,
My finger trembles against the weight,
All of the things I could have done,
If I had known more about the world that awaited me,
If I could have called my younger self,
and tell him how naive we were,
How I let us down,
Which is worse,
To live with a sense of injustice,
Or to realize that your misfortune,
Is justice after all.
The world does not need our approval,
To tell us who we really are.
Rusty
"No excuse,
but the metal has rusted.
An unkept armory.
Barrels with red,
triggers peppered orange.
Springs stuck,
pins, unmoving.
Bores obstructed.
The whole weapon set
useless,
to the trained eye.
But
a gun is still a gun,
the potential it has
to kill,
ever present.
Rusty or not,
it is still recognizable,
months of no use
not enough to erase
the sizable impression
of the shape,
the indication
of the handgun, long gun.
The task looming,
Armorer,
keys in hand,
sighing.
Unlocking
the cages,
duty tumblers turning,
locks coming free.
So long,
had it beem
since maintenance
had been laid
where it belong.
The familiar metal
began to fill hands,
twist, turn,
rifles broke down,
pistols slid apart.
Rusty was the
mind,
as were the firemans,
but both began
to be broken
free.
Rag, brush,
break-away sprayed,
assemblies oiled.
Pieces began to click,
operate smoothly,
unlike language,
where lack of use
means disappearance,
past tense
isn't the demise
of functionality of things,
like bike riding.
or an armory.
The Armorer will be busy,
it may take some time.
But he will pass inspection.
With work,
with determination,
desire
and time.
It takes time
for things to rust.
It takes time
to fix such a lack of use.
The best solution
isn't busting rust,
but daily use,
rather."
Pistol
The iron-made pistol doesn’t know,
Who to hit, who to let go!
To hit the target it is born,
It earns both appreciation and scorn.
A pistol saves life and snatches one too,
It is wild and arrogant so,
Just like the ferocious tiger,
Carnage is its solemn desire.
If we need to keep pistols or not,
It is just another grave thought!