Ricochet

When bullets ricochet,

Who do they hit?

Does air take the brunt?

Or does soil take its stead?

Does blood seep in?

Or do gasps cloak pain?

Does pain exist at all?

Or do we float in nothingness?

Do the dead deserve mercy?

Or is it the living?

Or those that exist, the undead

who die with every first ray?

When bullets ricochet,

Who do they hit?

The intended or the ones not?

Altars who take a bite

Plunging headlong

not knowing what,

conscious only of a why.

When bullets ricochet,

Who do they hit?

Sinking ships or exuberant masts?

Ones alive or those cold?

Feathers and coffins

Or wreaths and greys?

When bullets ricochet,

What do they leave?

Misery in their wake

Or the ecstasy of a ride?

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