Moving gently between flowers and locations,
With seeming abandon and randomness,
I can detect no pattern of logic,
Yet, this one has a weapon,
Which seems to fill the room with noise and fire,
Spitting maliciously from the itchy, hair-trigger,
Of a mind moving at speed.
Ducking and diving now,
To avoid an “accidental” shooting,
A mind tries to reflect on why, while avoid certain doom,
In a simultaneous moment.
Such is wont of freewill when weaponized,
By the agent provocateur.
One the tirade is over,
A thankfulness fills the room,
To be followed by reflection,
On what just happened.