An explosion goes off in front of me,
loud as thunder and quick as lightning,
and it hits like a speeding locomotive.
The wound rips through the chest,
exposing tissue, sinew, muscle,
It is dripping,
a sanguine waterfall,
that pours our red,
a liquid of memory and phobia,
falling down to stomach,
I feel myself begin to fall,
but where will I go?
Surely the stone-cold concrete,
is not an end.
Will I go to paradise?
Or maybe the sheer utter blackness,
of pure nothing?
All of it is possible.
I hit the ground,
and there is no pain,
other than a dull sting in my chest,
which emanates from the bullet-hole,
that was once filled with life,
and the floor and I,
become one and cold together.
Maybe, after all this, I will blossom 10,00 years,
in the Kingdoms of Heaven?
Or Maybe I will rot 10,000 years,
in the mud-pits of Hell?
Question upon question,
but it doesn't matter,
because the world is looking flatter,
from my coffin-on-the-ground perspective.
Maybe I'll be a tree,
a little oak grown from a grave,
out of my gunshot wound,
this being the fate that won the afterlife,
out of all the others.
Nicholas Peter's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Gunshot by Nicholas Peter )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(27 January 1832 – 14 January 1898)
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