~To himself ~

The man walks,

Alone on a littered sidewalk,

Lost in the forest of his thorny past;

Although the only green in this city of hate

Is the spreading sickness,

An emerald fire.

The man's pocket bulges slightly

And he pats it,

Like a pat on the back,

A reassuring tap that says:

"If I can't have her, no one will."

And the gun silently agrees.