The Cane and the Gun
clutched in a grip of steel;
eyes locked where you'd once lain,
he just cannot find the will
to run, run, run!
Away from corpses, cold and still--
take the silver-handled gun
used to only kill, and kill.
What happened to his friends?
His jokes do not that silence fill.
He recalls faces of pain,
but they are fading slow, until--
in that house as cold as winter,
"it was all just a joke!"
he searches for them, whispers,
"please, my friends, come out."