Gun Blast

The sky was pink today, and shone blushing hues upon the snow dunes and roan boughs. I looked out from the panes, marveling in its beauty, with a heart in one hand, and a gun in the other. There was a power he could have seized, had he not trampled me underfoot; a bloodline I could have ceded to his will. But he was unresponsive, lost beneath the laughing monsters of a vulnerable, glass child. There is a closet genius in him, and a wounded infant behind his Berlin Wall that he shows to no one, least of all me. It was my misfortune to have found it out, and I regret the very day. I also regret his spewing Chernobyl which pervades me now. The radiation poisoning is anger morphed into a cancerous pity. And for him I gather it will one day be destruction, when not one of ten thousand can say they know his soul. When the glass child shatters and pierces him in to out. When he bleeds for sure and without end. Will he just regret me then? I cannot solve him through and through; and after the clearing I know that this is my heart he has handed back to me, and the gun is his too.