Season of Goodbyes

Whenever the triggerman’s fingers twitch, it’s the season of goodbyes.

Whenever the noose’s metronome keeps hang time, songs bleed pain.

If you turn the stereo down low enough, you can hear the downtrodden aching for an antidote to oppression.

You can understand how hard it is to change horses mid-breath when the final breath is being choked from your body.

On the streets, I hear rumblings that the gun has taken a shot at writing poetry.

Perhaps it can teach bullets how to sing Ave Maria.