Search for Meaning

Lust and muscle and bone and blood,
he was a tangled fury, when he fell with a thud.
His eyes were blazing but his nerves were shot,
he tried to move, but found he could not.

The edge of the cliff was a little closer, now,
but try as he might he couldn’t keep his vow
to end it all if things went horribly wrong,
a promise he’d written in a country song.

The pistol was empty and the knives weren’t sharp
so he tried to find another way to hear the angel’s harp.
He tried to end it all by holding his breath,
well that’s a piss poor way to cause one’s own death.

He turned his head to the west and then south,
looking for poison pills to put in his mouth,
but the pills had spilled by the liquor river,
where he’d tried to drink himself to death, marinating his liver.

Alcohol had failed him, didn’t take his life,
but it ruined his mind, so he’d lost his wife.
Now he needed to find a way to die
but his body had failed him and he started to cry.

A kind young woman happened by just then
and saw the tear-stained sinner, taken down by sin.
So she pulled her revolver and she used the gun.
What strange behavior from a former nun.

She slipped the gun inside her modest habit
and hopped away quickly, like a bunny rabbit.
Concealed carry guns go in the strangest places,
and you can’t tell by looking into people’s faces.

She figured he needed killing, so it was justified,
and he’d wanted to die, it wasn’t homicide.
Turns out she left the church when she was twenty-one,
but the habit still fits, so she plays like a nun.

Except, of course, when killing drunken men
who are deeply suicidal and steeped in mortal sin.
There may be a moral in this tale, but I don’t know where,
I keep looking for it, maybe it’s not there.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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