Poetry: Everyone Knows the Name Comes Last

In the hot summer
The smell of decayed flesh
Carries for miles
You can't smell it in the winter
Can't smell the death on your doorstep
But you can always hear it
Howling for your blood
Screaming for your gray matter
And after a while
Your shotgun looks different to you...
It looks like you could just
Fit the barrel in your mouth,
Trust me, it fits.
It's hard to write and keep Your trigger toe stea