After all these years
of being a statue, standing here,
ever stuck at full attention
for any glimpse or any mention,
of the pathway –
leading that way,
the trail headed away from here;

to a “new” anywhere
of the strange and unfamiliar,
filled by newfound things
void of any former memories,
of the times –
left behind,
in the days bathed in pure grief;

for so many open wounds
that wax and wane like the moon,
unable to simply heal and fade
the edges catch and begin to fray,
all over me –
quite vividly,
a bloody mess for a brand new day.

After I’ve spent so long
living strictly by the gun,
it seems natural, after all, my dear
that I’ll die by the gun one year,
but the scenery –
of my finality,
will have to be anywhere but here.