She’s gonna buy herself a gun
and load it with unsure
pack it nice and tight with the
armament of serendipity
and blasting it into the gala picnic
that bears her name
and resides in the bosom of her spent barrel
Blindfolded and with a 10 paced step,
the slapping of gloves
is the chivalrous act of all musket men
whose aim becomes the focus of intent
and the projection of all slug nightmares
that haunt trigger hearts
and secure the poised target of regret
Faith shall be the lord of many tomorrows
and hope, its crowning dignitary
forever to wash anew
with the glorious ache of a firing squad
who waits silently
patiently
assuredly.
Thoughts pirouette and spin in slow motion
rowelling this soldier to believe
in the possibility of execution
and the bedding of all demons
that choke each angel breath
with a desolate spirit
and the vastness of her battle mind field
And just like the Centifolia Rose
whose 100 petals shall bloom in this eon war
its triumvirate reign shall
obliterate all ghosts
bury their memories
and shoot its despair, with a rifle of courage
and a cannon of forgiveness
The breadth and width of her head held high
shall sustain and keep her warm in the glow of this joyous sorrow cusp
whose threshold ensures preservation
and encourages grafting
lest she wakes in a field of dejection
and dreams of slumber
she knows will never come.
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