at night, my shotgun whispers
it promises such peace
and like its magazine spring
I quiver for release.

all through the morning's darkness
she asks me if I would
skip the coming sunrise
and quit these lands for good...

again I say "No thank you,
hold your bright orange kiss,
though the list grows shorter,
there's still things that I'd miss."

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.