The Assassin’s Gun

 

Youthful fingers felt the metal at their command

And the irreverent surge of power, twitching the crotch,

With toothed movement in its bowels and its excited bark,

A pup, enamored with its own bark, gratuitously repeats.

 

Assassin’s fingers grow older, and calloused with time.

The gun appears unchanged in those familiar digits,

It’s only evolution concealed by its tiny movements,

Memory in its toothy cogs, hammer and judging finger.

 

Another metallic cough, another empty space.

A snap-shot of the assassin’s target in the muzzle-flare,

Guilt congeals in the empty chamber, smoke disperses,

To reveal a tired man’s remorse and no youthful erection.

 

The Assissin has learnt his art well, weathered at 31.

He has more restraint with bullets, and efficiency with aim,

He holsters the gun under his coat, hidden to all,

And locks another chapter of its history in his heart.