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In the early morning
in the late brisk day
under asterisk stars

and the substance of may
we gather together
for neighborly hope

in spite of things
lost and forgone
not one but three in

solemn persistance
for the birds can
hear our minds rhetoric
the warm days need cool water for friends
The long lost cries
Are but distant memoirs of foolishness
Why conform to my misery?
When I have all that I need
Why the want to be great?
When I can just be
Why the feeling of disappointment?
When I'm not failing
Why the anger and envy?
When I can choose not to care
Why be like I am?
Why I can be how they are
Why must I be like this?
Why can't I just be?
If ever you feel angry, if ever you feel a failure. If ever you feel as if your past had a brighter future than your present, well guess you're in the same boat as I. No need to worry too much about it. We all need time. Time to figure things out, time to sort ourselves out.
Cyrus Gold Apr 2016
Victor stumbles into the room faster than
his mind has time to assess what had just occurred.
Sweat drips down his face as he pants heavily,
trying desperately to catch his breath.
It's vacant. Good.

He’s asking too much of his left hand
as it holds the Astra 600 semi-automatic pistol
given to him by his father,
but also attempts to stop the bleeding
from his lower abdomen.

His grip of the weapon loosens;
soaked with so much of his own blood
that he could taste the metal.
Never use it unless you’re dead, his father would always say.

Right palm open on his chest, he begs his spirit
for a sliver of peace, waiting for his
heart and mind to see eye to eye one last time.

He takes a moment to survey the room;
the wallpaper, once bright, symmetrical and gracious,
is now torn, revealing the ugly foundation underneath;
a frame-less door hangs on a corner of a wall,
ironically leading nowhere.

His eyes turn to the center of the room;
a chair, made with traces of oak
and other synthesized material,
sits at the center.

Victor's pistol slips from his hand,
and he uses the energy he has left
to drag his feet, each step harder than the last,
to take his seat.

The chair is positioned
to give the sitter the best view
through wrecked windows,
but the real show was about to begin.

“Sam. Sam I am”, Victor begins to mutter under his breath.
“I do not like… them. Sam, I am. I do not like… green eggs…”
He pauses.
“This is the beginning of the end”, he says.

His mind wanders, and then begins to project images
of a life, once colorful, beautiful and happy,
now unrecognizable, yet familiar.

The show starts;
he was knee high, playing with the neighbor’s Jack Russell Terrier
for days on end, only to be told he wouldn’t see the dog again.
He was sick, and had to be put down.
When he asked his father what that meant,

“He'll suffer if we do nothing, Victor.
Sometimes we have to be cruel to be kind."

Another scene plays;
A young adult, taking an English literature course,
decides to study The Importance of Being Earnest,
a tale where individuals use different personalities to
escape social obligations, thus wearing masks of sorts.

It's ironic that Oscar Wilde was hiding his true self
when he wrote that garbage
, Victor thought to himself,
now chuckling at the thought.
What was it he once said?
I can resist anything, but temptation.

And another scene;
the woman he spilled coffee on
the first time he met her
was now saying “I do”,
feeding him a slice of their wedding cake.
It tasted bittersweet.

Nothing lasts. Couples fight.
An unstoppable force opposes an immovable object.
I always lie is something
Victor would yell at her in a passive aggressive manner,
but was he being truthful?

"I do not like… them. Sam, I am. I do not like… green eggs, and… ham."

Green Eggs and Ham.
His daughter’s favorite book.

My daughter... my baby girl, Victor wept.
Her life was taken
the day after he read her Dr. Seuss,
unknowingly for the last time.

It took him three agonizing years
but he finally found the monster responsible
for taking her life;
until five minutes ago,
that man was living a floor below the apartment
that Victor is now dying in.

Seconds before the skirmish,
Victor vaguely remembers the murderer
shouting something to the effect of,
"Leave me alone! I'm nobody!"
He was neither right, nor wrong.

Victor's 9x19mm parabellum+ slugs
pierced the murderer’s chest and neck,
but that man fired first with his
long-range carbine rifle;

it was the ricochet
of his 5.56x45mm round
that ultimately did Victor in,
striking his abdomen from behind, with the bullet
traveling through and through
and the residual shrapnel
poisoning his blood.

Victor killed a murderer,
and narrowly escaped death, only to die.

He leaves this world believing
that life in and of itself is a contradiction
full of negations, deceit, and divisions by zero.

To honor life, he chose to ****;
revenge in the name of harmony.
Never use it unless you’re dead, his father would always say.

His father would be proud.
The bullets fired from Victor's pistol are known as parabellum rounds; para bellum is a Latin phrase derived from Si vis pacem, para bellum,
meaning if you want peace, prepare for war.

— The End —