The bore of your revolver is clear to me now.
I'm staring down the rifled barrel,
coming face to face with the ammunition within,
It seems to glare back at me with a certain disdain.

Is it the person behind the trigger I'm worried about?
Or is it your bullets, the amalgamation of mind and metal?

I suppose it's too late to wonder now;
your thoughts have forced their way into my brain.