Johnny

Neglected, loaded,
lying on the shelf,
Saturday night special
chambered rounds itching
cylinders confinement.

Little hands,
little hands playing,
boredom makes its call
telling the little hands
to search and explore.

standing on hat boxes
Mom brought from the store,
climbing and fumbling,
cylinder tumbling,
brass cased cartridges shining.

Spying down the barrel
to see that glow,
curiosity of this little cat
takes it toll.

The hammer drops,
the round it pops,
crimson paints the walls.

And down the stairs,
and around the hall,
Mother calls his name,
“Johnny?”

Johnny

burk28

Warren, United States

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

Poetry

Tags

dark poetry sad

desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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