Before it pulled the trigger,
it painted daffodils on brawny mountain faces
and windmills in green lush.

Before it pulled the trigger,
it jack-knifed into cenotes,
skimmed rocks, jumped rope on lakes,
pulled weeds from rose gardens.

Before it pulled the trigger,
it waded knee-deep in cold waters,
climbed hills, grazed knees,
lost teeth to cavities.

Before it pulled the trigger,
it lumbered far and wide,
ran breathless—one with the wind,
lost kites in trees,
spinned half-empty vodka bottles.

Before it pulled the trigger,
he sniffed lines of white dust,
shot crystals up his veins,
marred visions and relationships,
the moon became a crumbling cookie.

Before it pulled the trigger,
oguro ladened tongue found honey at her core,
the sky rained meteors,
rejection dug deep,
raised scars marred skin.

Before it pulled the trigger,
his wingspan was six-feet east to west,
one foot raised—the other suspended;
an eagle launched at dusk.

Before it pulled the trigger,
hands packed lunch boxes,
tied misplaced shoelaces,
carpooled amidst childhood clutter.

Before it pulled the trigger,
breaking glass jarred her from sleep,
sweat slicked beneath the sheets,
chattering teeth hid in shadows
from promises to destroy her future.

Before it pulled the trigger,
the keeper of rules, pugilist of good fights
soft gums grew fangs,
became a vampire desecrating flesh.

Before it pulled the trigger,
lines were obscured,
boundaries destroyed,
wrong became right;
trigger became the escape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Yuri Shkoda from Pexels