The feel of the barrel surely cold
and probably odd to mouth hold.
Was it propped to help aid its weight?
The mechanics to do such a simple act.
Does one plan this act, obsess the details
or just fantasize until reality fades?
Is planning part of the journey or a cry?
Does the instrument chosen imply resolve?
A blade a pill a cord a gun a car, they choose.
Does choosing gain some inward satisfaction?
Some control over a life, surely chaotic?
Or no code followed here for reality, faded?
But at that final moment what holds them back?
An angel or a will unwilling to say… ok?
Remorse, regret, or seeing reality without them?
What holds them back, what brings them back?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem