Prodding dreamily at the space under
My chin. The space where the shotgun would fit
Snugly in. Thoughts that vaguely meander
As I rest under this gnarled tree’s bough. It
Seems that it would be no trouble at all
If I was to fall from this place and rest-
Lessly crawl on through. I just need to call
On that one moment’s decision; a guest
In no time of neck-snapping Death who yet,
As my host, ushers me beyond.
What remains; a whip lashed marionette,
Shattered and twitching, that will not respond.