Author's Beginning Note Thingy: A great big thanks to Soul of Ashes for providing the inspiration for this poem... I'd been meaning to write some poetry lately, but didn't have the subject matter, and she came to the rescue and gave me an idea. You have my eternal gratitude!

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Bullets

Silently they fall
to dance upon the ground.
Brass-encased, they all
go glittering around.
One-use, a stroke of death,
a dirge of ringing bells
spare the dying one last breath,
the blast their doom foretells.
And all that's left to show my sin
are silent empty shells.

Quick killer in the night,
my intentions streaking by,
they sear the air in flight
and shatter up the sky.
A blackened bullethole,
a spurt of liquid red,
the funeral bells toll,
before they land they're dead.
Damnation hollows me within,
like the shell without the lead.

They know nothing more than this,
destruction is their way.
Not the taste of love's sweet kiss,
steeped in murder will they stay.
Each one, used, another mark
upon my branded face.
Another deed done in the dark,
a shadow light cannot erase:
the horror lurks inside me,
the soul leaves a flesh embrace.

Created but to kill,
for nothing else alive.
I fight against their will,
toward the light I strive.
Yet what's the bullet with no gun?
It's weak without the heart.
I know the wrong in what I've done,
it's tearing me apart.
Redemption is the hope I see,
but it's far too late to start.

I can feel the buckling frame
consumed by what's inside.
I'm nothing but a face and name
and demons trying to hide.
Just like the poison, soft and sweet,
wrapped up in shining gold,
not lead that clatters at my feet,
but the split and ruined mould.
I haven't yet completed life,
but god, I'm getting old.

I count the empty bullet-slots
and think about the pain,
I realize each and every one I've shot
is another sin to stain
my already burned and scarred soul,
but I can still pretend
the bits of sanity they stole
have not left me condemned.
With bitter eyes I face this strife,
tomorrow, will it end?