Staring down the Barrel of a Forty-five

The whole of the world,
the entirety of existence--
all have faded into nothing,
all but this raving raspiness,
all but this cocked threat,
and the dull throb of your heart.

'Are you scared?'
The raspy leer comes from ahead
and yet behind that threat.
'You ought to be.'
The threat looms just before
and yet after that realization.

The golden sparks begin to fly
in the dark behind your eyes,
and so your muscles tingle and twitch.
A raving laugh buzzes in your ears.
It must see the way you twitch
not as a twitch but a tremble.
It must no see the golden sparks
behind your cat eyes that dilate
with eagerness and delight
for you are moments away
from sating your greatest curiosity.

The cocked threat dances
while the raving raspiness keeps count.
One--two--three--
three tears--one for each face.
One--two--three--
three faces--one for each phase.
One--two--three--
three phases--the ages of man and woman.
One--two--three--
the whole of life surmised in beats,
like the dull throb of your heart
as you contemplate the depths.

The golden sparks must strike a nerve
because the twitch changes
as it touches your heart.
Beneath your layers, you tremble
and find yourself oddly ready
for when the hammer strikes the bullet,
for when the bullet strikes your heart,
for when the dull thud fades away,
for when the three faces swim into view.