I saw a man last night
Sitting in a small steel chair
Bent
Low
With a horrible black revolver
In his hand
Crying hard and red
Shooting himself
In the head
His trembling voice
Pleading
Wishing to be dead
Each shot tore his skull open
But each time
It warped back into place
So
He cocked the gun
Again
And though he tried harder
With every shot
He couldn’t seem to die
He heard me passing
And lifted his head
Then looked me square in the eye
The weight of his stare filled me with dread
For the man in the chair, was I
