Shorter works

The fugitive

Juice flows through me
I am squeezed by raised eyebrows
I look for colours where sharpness sings the greens
Are greener and my fingers tingle
Through me
His blood spills careless
As my fingers
As my hand recoils

And I put down the gun
And remember the gunpowder smell
As I am refrigerated by the walls

Of my cell of solitude