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You don't write a novel with a rifle

until you cover the sound with your hood

aiming for an apple

and if you shoot the floor

you cover the ceiling

and while you regret your actions

do you shoot again

and do you mary her

in a long distance relationship

with the tomb of the unknown

everything drains you and reaps your mistakes

as you regret everything about it

the lonely martyrdom chooses you

and you remember your desolate martyrdom

leaning over you and starting

to rattle the keys

while you still look through that keyhole

the desolate shot

against a curtain

behind which

seagulls are plummeting

towards your bare skull.