The slivered moon drips light sparingly into this hollow wind-gust night.
Where ocean rolls reflect a smattering of stars through the froth of white-capped waves; waves beating the rocky shore, mercilessly–
to rhythm I can bear no more.
Here I stand, bemused, a demonic grin diffused across my face.
The .38 by my side, my finger rapidly tapping the trigger; nervously, lightly. The last unspent round waits patiently, in its chamber.
Words, my words, lay dying beside me–their love, never true.
Behind me the forest rages its violent protest, seemingly angered by my crime,
as my weak and withering, dying words fail me, now for their last time.
No more shall their nuance sow ambiguity.
No more shall their dubiety betray me!
Let the swell dilute them,
For though I only confused them, misused them, and abused them,
they never, never truly understood me,
nor I them.
Alas, the sirens’ call–distant across the mountain–marks my time.
The last round waits,
for my last . . .