Gunshot

When the bullet leaves the
gun, does it miss its cool embrace,
does it long for cold arms round it
as it rifles and spins?

As it races, tumbling,
headlong in its journey thro' space
does it wonder at its passing,
at its rushed oblivion?

And when it's bashed and
twisted, compressed beyond all grace,
does it care much for the mush
that it got embedded in?

Added @ 02:17 PM to Poetry category on January 16, 2001