Marvel Poems

My Old Friend - Bucky Barnes

Death wasn't something he was afraid of. It had been a friend of his for years. It visited him often in his dreams or in dark rooms. It had embedded itself into his hands, coating them often in sticky red. It caressed the trigger of the gun he held to his own head in later years, waiting for him to only give the final say. It whispered to him in the depths of those cold nights he'd stay up and watch, hands trembling with fear, remembering all the lights he'd dimmed. The voice would say it's alright. That it was alright to go.

He once believed in a God, perhaps still did somewhere in the broken depths of him. All those years of sitting in a pew of a solemnly silent church reminded him of what the consequences of being a man like him where. At one point, when he was still whole, he would have feared those words. Now he only wished for the gentle embrace of the friend that always followed him. It promised him at least a moment of peace, of relief. One he craved. Words once also said in that holy place told him of what awaited him if he gave in. A fiery pit of hell. The thought didn't disturb him as much as he thought it would. Being a man like him he thought he would deserve it. He'd lived in hell already. The snow would only be replaced with ashes.