Spur of the moment poem-that-should-never-be-called-a-poem. Kinda self-explanatory. Reviews make me happy. Disclaimer: S.E Hinton owns the Outsiders.
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Flashing cop lights guiding the way like dying angels-
Red, blue, red, blue, more red, and blue-
Blood and bruises-
In the night and in their hearts-
Pavement rushes by-
Stiff, white, too-clean hospital sheets-
Whispered words he can't understand-
And then he dies-
And he runs-
Swearing a blue streak-
Cursing the world-
Enough hurt to hold a city-
Enough hatred to fill the seas-
But nothing left-
To hold on to-
Except the gun-
Cold in his hands-
Screams pierce the air-
Shouts of a name he doesn't recognise-
Voices the frozen heart locks out-
Locks everything out-
Except-
That sliver of heat-
Slicing through the ice in his heart-
Cracking it in two-
And he smiles-
A smile as cold as the heart in splinters-
As cold as the piece of ground where he falls-
Where shadows gather 'round-
The slivers melt from the heat of the bullet-
And as the shell on the ground stops breathing-
The shell of the heart disappears.
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