A Poetry Collection - by Hugh Pearson

Gun Powder

                                                                                            Gun Powder

Smell of gun powder soaks into the walls.

The six-foot giant has on a peculiar face

invades his home and ravages his wife.

Upon the encounter, he stands in his oblivion

unable to think, unable able to speak

he watches the brute relishing her tender flesh.

She has on a deranged countenance

bursts of craze; ones that he knows

his inadequacy could never fulfill.

Feeling the cold metal that caresses his skin

he summons the thunders from his revolver.

There, on kitchen chairs and rustic canisters

splattered with pieces of grey, white brains.

Here, a mangle of bodies on a red canvas

with opened skulls and missing eyes

and dumbfounded smiles.

Smell of gun powder soaks into the walls.

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