So he’s rolling the empty wine bottles
under his feet as he takes a final drag
from his blunt.
The photo albums lay sprawled across
his lap with stagnant memories hidden
behind each plastic mirrored sleeve.
He weeps remembering with vivid recall
of happier days when he was a loving
father with bouncing blue eyed blond
haired children on his knees.
Now they filter through his glassy wet
eyes as he stands and kicks the empty
bottles whilst mumbling to his god.
Why me, why me?
He falls to this knees thumbing through
pages of cheerful faces looking back at
his misery, his breathing shallow, the
bleeding from his chest where a bullet
he triggered lays lodged close to his
Flashes from his past, his children
converge upon his dying soul and say
daddy, we are sorry, smiling, he knows
its time, too late to stop the finger
for a lost cause.
Life amounted to nothing and led
him to the bottomless pit of Hell;
a final shot is heard echoing from
his head as he fell.
© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved