He was a deadly face;
a loaded gun,
always aimed between the eyes
that stared down the barrel.
He was a warning;
always cocked
and ready to pull the metal
to project the final decision
on whoever asked the question.
He was gunpowder,
waiting for the match
to give him a reason
to explode.

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available onΒ amazon!

9 thoughts on “Bomb

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