Gun shots and twisted screams.
Vibrant shades of red against the grey.
The stuff of nightmarish dreams
against the dull reality of day.
The smoke clears. The shooting halts.
You leap. You dash. You slip.
Hands racing for your pistol
the shooting starts again.
The concrete is warm beneath the sun.
You limp across it,
arm outstretched, shaking, with the gun.
You can make it, you can make it.
If anyone can - it's you - you're the one.
You leap. You dash. You fall.
Your head hits the concrete and it seems to burn.
Then the cold. The chilling, biting cold.
It seeps into your stomach,
and steals the very breath from your lungs.
The smoke clears. The shooting halts.
You gasp. You choke. You freeze.
