The twenty-one gun jury’s been hung,
my assumed  verdict, overthrown.
Acquitted by the left hand,
condemned by the right,
a last request—
Think not of me as an aberration,
although perhaps I am,
Do not know where I shall go
nor care if there is anything after.
let me be absolved --
For all that remains is the weight
of thought that rages through me,
the rapid pendulum.

I am not innocent.
There is no recourse.  
In this solitude, the only existence is
being alone and depressed
and the tearing of my skin

Sweet Steel, slip silently in.