She raises her hand <br />to the level <br />of her bloodshot eyes <br />Her grip tightens <br />on the cold black metal <br />object in her hand <br />She squeezes the trigger <br />With a mini explosion <br />all of her hatred is released; <br />hurled at him <br />in the form of a bullet <br />Everything turns <br />to slow motion <br />As the concussion of sound fades <br />the room goes silent <br />A hot smoking shell <br />hits the floor <br />near her feet <br />He slumps over <br />and places his hands over <br />this new wound <br />A wave of shock <br />rushes over the couple <br />As his vision darkens <br />he makes a futile attempt <br />of holding back <br />this crimson flow <br />With the anger flushed <br />out of her face <br />it turns pale <br />She looks more concerned <br />than him <br />'I am so sorry' she sobs <br />All sounds are lost in a vacuum <br />save that of two <br />pounding hearts, <br />His breathing slows and softens <br />exhale... <br /> inhale... <br /> exhale... <br />and stops... <br /> <br />In the distance, <br />a little boys play <br />is paused as he <br />hears a second boom <br />echo through the air<br /><br />Nick Jankowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-broken-home-tragedy-at-the-very-least/
