The Gun

He stood in his garden

Young blue eyes gleamed at the old small box

He held in his hands like ancient treasure

Hearing his heartbeat like elderly grey clocks,

As the lid slid open,

His eyes suddenly widened,

Run, run, run

For there was a gun,

Dusty, grim and aged,

But instead he stayed

Thoughts spinning around his head,

He wondered how it would feel in his hand

His finger on the trigger...