The air was moist

it hugged him like steam,

the pain dug into his heart

but he failed to scream,

as he felt his insides being torn apart.

Here the air was a prisoner,

trying to escape his lungs,

he felt the cold pavement,

beneath him, warm,

like a summer storm,

that gently passes by,

as it just adds color to the sky.

Death came like a friendly presence,

a mild essence, with some distaste,

a brief notion made,

and it was out of haste,

death adjusted to life again,

and it dried out his nose and eyes,

then he felt the bullet holes,

he prays, then dies.

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