It was a long and cold
And murky night,
With the blood moon giving
Red tinge to everything in sight.
The gun was holding me,
The bullets started to escape
From the gun relentlessly.
I was in a trance,
Only the gun was able to see,
And the gun did its job flawlessly.
Spurts of blood gushed onto my face,
Rousing me from the trance,
All I could smell was blood and gunpowder,
As I stood there with stone-cold stance.
The gun continued fuel me courage,
The bullets were still escaping the gun,
As if blood was their forage.
But it felt as if they got sluggish,
I could hear them pierce through the flesh,
Or maybe I was simply brutish.
People whisper that
I’m a voyeuristic, cynical
And callous sociopath.
But deep down I know,
I’m just another criminal who has
To face his deed’s aftermath.
Rogue Poet 