Weapon Firing-Weapon Stops
Spent brass cases fly and burn;
the sun crying in the sky.
The middle distance tangled, twisted.
Death rushing by.
The last joke heard recalls a smile,
the last round leaves with a final punch.
Resignation; through the noise
and sadness, death arriving
with little fuss.
(c) Colin Lichen 1993-2013
(1993)
Some more of Colin's poems may be found at http://rhd12.wordpress.com/
