MusingsPoetrySad Poems

The Last Gunman

Ambushes laid await, her weight,
For her eviction like
A soldier amidst the green grass
Waiting to aim at his prey.

At fourteen, one came
With the bullet of lust and
Gave a headshot;
Not missing his target,
He got her.
… So, she was left between
The anvil and the hammer.

At sixteen, another came
With his rifle of theft and
Shot her hands that she may
Steal that which wasn’t hers.
He got her again.
… So, she became the woman
The people wanted behind
The bars to cross the bar.

At eighteen, they converged.
Two gunmen this time. One
With a rifles of lies and the other,
Of covetousness. As usual,
They fulfilled their aims and left
Her life amidst the
dining table of regrets.

She soon began to panic
Of growing older, lest another
Comes for her head.

Two decades past, yet
Another gunman had arisen
With the rifle of sexual perversion.
Quickly, she knew him and his agenda.
She’ll pull him like the pulley, beat him like the drums
And play him like the piano. Then,
In the end, push him into lonely days

For he may be a gunman,
But she has assured him he can
Only be the last gunman.

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