HE LOOKS UP TO THE SKY

WHAT’S LEFT OF HIS MIND

DECIDES IT DOESN’T MATTER NOW,

IT’S TOO LATE FOR FIXING,

THINGS ARE ON THEIR COURSE,

THEY WILL KILL ME,

IT DOESN’T MATTER IF I DIE.

But the sky is only the ceiling,

And his mind is only intoxicated with blood,

It wants him to die just as hard as it wants to live.

He steps out, rifle held vertical

And walks down the stage,

Where all these actors play their roles,

And scream their language,

And when one tries to charge him,

He drops the rifle to his hip and pulls the trigger.

He is alive today, years past that date

When he called himself dead,

And walked out of that building ready to die.