In the silence of this sunny street, fleet of feet
shuffle in bigger fear that the trigger lets loose
a ball via the barrel of the big boss that struts
through its muzzle, logs in the flesh with bore,
claiming lives and posing pains at their peak.
Some have to fall and bow to bouts of bullets;
some brought to their knees with seething sore.
Someone has to grieve over their loss and frets,
Some, nursing bullet wounds makes them caw.
This is how bullets wrap our psyche in shock.
When mute metal mutters words into the ears,
brain should be the filter – to spill or to spare?
Spurs to the hands begin from within the head.
When the head heeds not the metal’s mutter,
no finger, however stronger, will pull the trigger.