etched in pure silver;
The bullet? The barrel? Either.
I dare you to change my mind; set the revolver on its side….a bullet hiding in one of six beds, at the luck of the draw, will it go flying through the sky? Baby I love you there is no stopping that; but at the thought of it my heart begins to play Russian Roulette, for two. The gun barrels cocked, it’s you’re shot. An old oak table stands between the act of chance. I’m an angel with thorns. The bullet is already unstable. Just for a moment you give me that glance. Fate doesn’t matter when you’re taking an untimely chance. As if the barrels laughing at the change it’s about to determine, a wink from you and the guns reached its verdict. A bullet; a word, a look, an action, preconceived and purposely accurate. The gun steams as it lays on its side, the middle of the table is where it resides…love’s a slick shooter, let’s see who dies, who’s worth risking your life & doesn’t want to change their mind.