Bullet

The bullet thrusts forward,

Its crude Freudianism enhanced, somehow,

By its speed and its brutality.

It forges, it thrusts, it lunges

Tearing viciously at the air,

At anything that should stand

Between it and its predetermined passion.

With a bang, not a whimper,

Screaming harshly its great need,

The sleek body tears frantically

At the unimportant,

Blinded by its overwhelming urge.

He stands alone,

Mindless in this millisecond

Perhaps a picture of his mistress

Half formed in his mind.

The passion he has known

Almost broke his heart,

But it is nothing,

Nothing beside the bullet,

Its passion climaxing in his brain.