Figments

This loaded
Gun of miseries
Is aimed at
Point blank
Range

Triggered
By hands
Of consequence
Which deem me
So unfit

Readying
Brutal death
From bullets
That travel
Slowly

Through flesh
I now consider
An extension
Of human
Guilt –

My evidence
Growing old
And pale
From long
Misusage

When choosing
This able body
To starve itself
Weak
With fear

And shattering will
Like bone
Blasted
By choice
Into pieces

Leaving more
Traces of failure
That drip
From a hurt
So red,

As damages
Build
Over time
Like clots of
Memories wasted

Thicker
Than crimson sacrifice
Which paint
Those walls
With loss

Garnering
Little shame
Or judgement
Beyond all
Reason

To prevent
Such true disaster
Of a life
That’s claimed
By itself.

Some ends
Are far more
Literal
Even if done
Unwilling

Physical
Though barely noticed
As they are
Just figments
Of speech.

– J. Pigno

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