SPENT WORDS

As a hail of bullets from a gun
The words keep streaming out
One follows another, no pause
It’s an almost infinite magazine
A never ending belt being fed
The whole nine yards expired

Then quiet, and steaming hot
A single moment of reflection
Holes pepper across the page
And was any of that worth it
Perhaps all missed their mark
All now gone, into the ether

Eventually they fall, exhausted
On the distant soft dark earth
Someday, seen and picked up
Retrieved, yet not quite trash
Each one adds its tiny weight
To an odd growing collection

Together now as blobs of lead
Sad, and unsuitable for re-use
Yet each had its own purpose
Allocated a meaningful target
The short freedom of release
And a trajectory to remember

But each leaves behind a case
Shiny brass that was its home
With an almost perfect shape
All selected for their accuracy
Everything was about context
And for their intended impact