On the table in the quiet inn
are spent bullets, spelling out the words
‘You are empty’.
You stare at them;
everyone you’ve spoken to before
seems to reinforce
the message as true.
Then in the palm of your hand
a warmth spreads out to your fingertips.
You look up to see the barmaid
grinning at you mysteriously, motioning to wave your hand
over the bullets.
You do so,
and before your eyes
they turn into gems
polished so brightly
that their brilliance overshadows
all the scars the bullets left on your skin.
‘You gave me this power?’ you ask the maid.
‘No,’ she replies,
‘it was yours to begin with.’
Treeshallow Musings 