Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2013
Gun
It is cold. Through the days I found myself loathing that object of mechanical functioning, but never looked upon it with disregard. The grip is truly comfortable; the grip and its metallic curves fit my hand and its fingers...just fine. Once again, I summoned it and, without making use of it, I left it there. There, the place where it should never be taken from.
Written by
Julio Cardenas
4.8k
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems