Bullet holes never make noise.
The wife watching the blood ooze from her heart she had given to be kept
Will surely scream for help in a wilderness where hospitals are unicorns.
The kids watching will maybe be quiet in shock, for death is something
Strange, like an old unicorn, like a dying unicorn. Their tears will speak.
The assailants will most likely keep screaming and thudding, as they protect
Their team from the bullets they called for. Carrying their wounded and dead.
The guns will keep firing, as their owners pull their legs about freedom
And their bullets silently steal blood or steal souls like mini-Reapers.
The government will pass blame, the opposition will pass blame, and both
Will stay silent on how they can stop the bullets from making guns loud.
But bullet holes never make noise.
They just wring your heart, hopes, and joys in one silent instant, and leave you
Clutching your breast, squeezing the person who now must also remain silent.
#RIP Charles Wesco. God’s got you.