smoke from the barrel

I can write mean.

or soft.
with compassion,

or vengeance. the pen
is in my

hand, but out of it.
I can't
control

what others do, it's
their blood

I dip into.
the long pointed quill,

feathered white,
or is it the black fist
of a gun.

i'm not sure some days.

I just write
and write into the fading

light, then walk
away.

letting smoke
from the barrel
blow,
and fade.