a big shot,
like the shot that killed Goliath,
was in fact a small shot,
but he made a big shot that would make a big shot out of him.
to be found on his floor,
whit a needle in his hand,
a slingshot next to his flaming locks
of golden, woven hair ,
,oh what a big shot after all,
nothing becomes what nothing makes

covered in vomit,
as green as the absinthe he drunk the night before,
was repulsed up after another evening of craving,
lying on the floor living on memories from time that has passed,
into a bourbon colored cloud,
that so many things have passed on through,
fleeing the time of his worried mind,
damped and suppressed by different intoxicating drinks and such,
that eventually killed a big shot like him whit out any shots

pressing him over from the silent night that is about to get even more quiter,
without the swish and the swoosh,
of his slinging shots that ring out the bells of night
and brings the dead alive
into the world they once fled
into the unknown,
into the light and the endless shores
they fled from this darkness,
in which we live
without knowledge
of just what it is