The Glory
by Peter John Cunningham
He’s given up, nowhere to go and nothing more to do,
The only thing he can rely on is himself, and his finger,
And The Metal Demon in his hand, whispering in his ear, while his finger,
Still stuck to the trigger, almost releasing an abrupt cascade of applause,
Cut short by the fleeting realization, the self-loathing, and the anger.
In the last moment, life as he lived it flashes in a bright light,
Right in front of his bloodshot eyes, two red moons in the darkness,
‘This wasn’t how it was to be,’ he thinks, and sitting alone, in his dark, dark
Secret place, he puts down the instrument of his demise, but
Also the instrument of his salvation, his sanctity, his long forgotten sanity,
And thinks. Of moments past, present, and future. His future.
It is his, and no one else’s to claim. Solemn vows are made, promises
Are spoken like raindrops in a thunderstorm, and as the lightning lights up his life,
He stands, walks out into the pouring rain, a lion, striding out to reclaim his jungle.
But how is it, one day, one week, one month,
He returns, makes the same promises like a broken record, leaves,
And simply goes through it again. As this repeats,
He realizes, the thought no longer terrifies him and the act has become mundane,
In his mind at least, until he confronts himself for the last time,
A good look inside, a good look outside, rain outside,
And, as tears stream down his face, his own rain, he relies on the finger one last time,
Releases, briefly hears the bump, hears another, feels the peace
And then he is gone, gone in search of The Glory, The Glory that he could never find.
