Swift is death by lead slug.
Agonizing is the gut rot.
Who should fear the bullet?
Yet, they all do;
they fear its certainty.
It denies hope – even false hope.
To have one’s innards turn to mush,
that is a vile way to recede.
To die shivering under a tarp
in a rain that comes relentlessly –
day after day / no end in sight –
that’s the devil’s own conception of death.