Wednesdays Writing Prompt

A Thursday Response to Wednesdays Writing Prompt:

One.

Shaking hands—a trembling finger

Resting lightly on the trigger

A second passes in a hundred years

Blood-drums pounding in your ears

Two.

Bead of sweat trickling down your brow

Sneering lips—you’ve got her now

Heat in your chest a rising fire

Vicious sensation of vengeful desire

Three.

Eyes open wide and cold with fear

The face of someone you held dear

A chance was given—she did not move

And now you’re left with something to prove.

Shaking hands—a trembling finger

Presses lightly on the trigger

Noise and smoke and shock pulls back

Eyes clenched shut turns vision black.

And silence comes, and hovers there

In tiny whispers a three-word prayer—

Three.

Two.

One.

But a deed like that can’t be undone.

It’s over now, you’ve made your bed.

The song has ended—the singer’s dead.

A Writer's Existence

My Post (1)

“Walk, run, skip for all I care. But, if you don’t leave right now, you have exactly three seconds to live.”

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