Nothing Left

A dark poem for a contest.

He takes another shot.

The bottle’s one swig from being empty.

He looks at his life captured in photographs.

All are of him with her.

The revolver holds down photographs,

As the gale blows in from the open window.

The miracle she left behind,

Lived for less than a day.

Now his life is gone.

There is nothing left.

He finishes the bottle.

He takes the revolver.

He plays Russian roulette.

Reviews

[Calibaster]

I like this. It is very vivid.