The Last Giving (Up)

The last bullet. It smells just like all the others before it. Same coldness rolling between my fingertips. But what could ever make it so different? No, HOW could it be made so different? Or is it really any different? I give up, again, as I have done before. And so this bullet shall deliver. I'll deliver one last time.

poem by Eon Ezkiel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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