Inner voice

On his chair, out in the dry
cigar in one hand,
revolver in the other
he fired - two rounds.
scattering the birds in their flight
tearing the air apart
piercing the sky
making holes
to speak to the dead.
Voice from above said -
Doors of death still afar
long queues and no respite.
neither there is space for the dead
nor content among the dead
but dead men live.
Perhaps, hell is here
heaven is where you are.
save the bullets, Son
your time hasn’t come yet.
After letting the-
clouds pass
air settle
cigar burn.
he fired -
three more rounds.
to silence his
cry within.
then one more
to confirm
its demise.
and continue
his fight.