Birdsoup

If I had
one polished brand-new sniper rifle
and one shiny silver bullet,
I would ram the barrel up my throat
force it through the bones of my neck
and gasp.

My final breath brings
my mouth overflowing with blood.
As paralysis sets in,
in my last deperate grab
at humanity and the meaning of life,
my primal instints
tell my finger to tighten itself
around the trigger.

My clean skyward bullet will tear through
the left ventricle of a passing turtle-dove.

I was thinking about symbolism when I wrote this poem.. still not too sure what I make of it! :|