He imagined himself

tracing to the shrapnels where snow fell into red,

Dread roamed to the verge of moon like 

flying lullabies, like flowery lips of muds, 

like falling sunrise, he pauses, as he unsnaps 

the first button on his collar, the armed one. 

That he had stepped aside from the old church he

usually went on Sundays to pray for humble air,

though he was no routine man (despite

his curious eyes and their immaturity). 

He had two hands to confess,

a man who did not follow orders of conduct

a man who did not pull the trigger as a soldier would,

so many lives to revival, to dishonor

the calling whistle. He undoes his patience

to the leaking. Why not? The red snow 

fueling out of the scalding ice. 

Now that he ceased to conform what had made 

him scared, too hot to cool off. A pistol he takes to aim

on his late salvation, Pull the trigger as he will, as it strips 

down the bleak skin, let the first thought be filled with snow,

in a tik-tok moment, in red.