mistaken identity
there is a bullet softly
gently dissolving in his
gut
he looks down
incredulously at the hole
at the slow blood this
is not him this
is not his life
he knows that because he
feels an intimate connection to
a different script this
is not his death this
is not where life was
scheduled to bring him
he sits down and
considers the bullet it
is an innocently cruel
bullet dipped in
malice without thought surely
not intended for him surely
an accident surely
the climax of another
play shaped by an unknowing
director
the bullet settles in it
makes itself at home and as
it lovingly begins its
metamorphosis from lead
to death it
releases poisonous memories
he hears again the silent
knives of betrayal the
vacuum that is the
end of trust
he sees again the invisible
words of anger the
clouds that are
precursor to the ice age
and the slow inexorable grind
of cold against bone
there is a bullet...
this is not...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem