The Choice Once Made


Don’t make me do it, man, don’t make me shoot you dead.
The hammer’s cocked; the barrel’s hot against your head.
And all silenced in one dread noise: The gun explodes,
my friend is gone, and from his skull rivers run red.

My hand shakes violently; my bowels wax weak.
My eyes, upon the corpse, some movement seek.
The hopeful thought, repentance, stings and goads:
No change will come. Our life is rather bleak.

Some chilling drafts over me flow,
and cold, outside and in, I grow.
So this is my damning crossroads,
the path down which I now grow old.

Nor song nor dance nor play
will in some future day
expunge this episode
and my dark shadows slay.

Bethinks myself
far from myself,
and down this road
never myself.

Fare well.
In Hell’s
I fell.


  1. Nice to see you at dVerse Poets tonight, the virtual pub for poets.

    A threat . . . a choice. And then the living through it, with it, and in a hell that follows one in the follow-through.
    A chilling post.

    Might you please include a link to dVerse or a tag dVerse so others might find our site, read you poem and perhaps join us?


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