metallic

Unfair unfair unfair
How the gun is a shape
In the cradle of the hand
That gives no birth to tenderness
Two metallic halves
At right angles
That make a wrong
Or a wrongly accused
As if your bones my bones
Aren’t made of the same starstuff
Delicate bits of matter
Hurtling through time
One facing gun
That the other cradles
And wouldn’t it be easier
If we were all wicks
Incandescent
In a buttery pool of wax
Fanning our own flames but not
Snuffing out each others