The Mechanics Poem by C H Sund

The feel of the barrel surely cold
and probably odd to mouth hold.
Was it propped to help aid its weight?
The mechanics to do such a simple act.

Does one plan this act, obsess the details
or just fantasize until reality fades?
Is planning part of the journey or a cry?
Does the instrument chosen imply resolve?

A blade a pill a cord a gun a car, they choose.
Does choosing gain some inward satisfaction?
Some control over a life, surely chaotic?
Or no code followed here for reality, faded?

But at that final moment what holds them back?
An angel or a will unwilling to say… ok?
Remorse, regret, or seeing reality without them?
What holds them back, what brings them back?