June 2, 2012
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I can still feel the trigger squeezing,
Smell the blood while it’s releasing,
The crumpled frame, lungs feebly creasing.
-- A bang, a squelch, a whimper.

A mangled, crippled body twitching,
Curse the dead, deceased bewitching,
Possessed by demons, scratching, itching.
-- A lie, the truth, a fallacy?

Imprinted on my vision, aching,
I’m a sinner in the making,
Dreams interrupted; shrieking, shaking.
-- A regret, a choice, a terror.

A life condemned to dwell on haunting,
Cameras flashing, faces taunting,
Bars to isolate my mourning,
-- A moment, an outburst, a mistake.

But they won’t let me forget.
So every night I curse the dead.

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