The .44 Caliber (trance, the roots)

[A_Perfect_Sonnet]

Ben Stivers
12/7/05

The .44 Caliber In the Top Right Desk Drawer Told Me I’d Be Saying Goodbye

How am I to mourn any less?
A glass coffin with crystal nails,
The fragility of life left on display.
Torn away by the bullet, through a barrel of a gun.
The puncturing of the flesh,
Entranced by accessible escape.

I gave to her the petals of a rose,
And blew the seeds into the garden.
To take hold of the soil and start again.
I planted the roots to build a new life,
And forget the sorrow, to build new hope.
I burned the stem to start,
Start the coals to smother the cold,
Only to put them out with my chest,
Pounding a solid rhythm.
And through the dust I saw the rebirth,
On the wings of angels,
Her spirit lifted through the smoke.
Ghosts, yeah we’ve all got ghosts,

They’ll tear you from your legs,
With no base on which to walk upon,
With the tragedy closing in on,
And with wolves, biting at her heart,
She collapsed into the fire.

After the accident
I stood for hours pondering direction
Without sight.
Follow the west,
The constructs of a life..
And when you follow the east,
Continual sunset,
No stars… just twilight.