The Revolver

With a desk, a cluttered room Through cracks in shutters I catch the moon Whirl my tangible face once around the threshold (Maybe my focus can be found). What is this I grapple with? Desire? Or hope? Perhaps the thought that imprisoned I might choke, That the dust I lick from a crevice or a floored shirt Might poison this feeble mind beyond the brink. Ahh tell me what this is! By day I sleep till I hear the voices Those impalpable whispers Emerging like a wind from uncertain distances What creature do they speak of? I cannot appear With fright I ponder Would they shut as I bend an ear? So longer I remain Inside a clod of splintered fear For could I spin the brutal revolver And rasp down the side of a phone "Hello, there's a caf? not far from here." I?denote? I proclaim? For I have picked a hundred reeds And scratched a hundred incantations I who stretched across the plain With arid hopes and dried temptation. I who scrawled upon your name Recalculated recalculations To count each card To time the spin To watch the table And dwell on 'begin' Even then I doubt Doubt is like a father You, who I dream of I perceive voice and smile But I doubt you should smile with me. And in age I ponder on another thought What would have happened? What could I change? Had I clung to some notable face Drawn it as a mask for some loneliness, Some shame; To live long in dependence, Empty hobbies and deafness? To filter out from the last acquaintance of youth And sit bitter at opposite ends? With no quiver I think not to stir To the infinite decision: At what point is life not worth the effort Of living? I wrote this for a competition, then realising there was a limited on the lines, but I thought I'd upload it anyway, even if not entering the competition, didn't really want to shorten it. Would be typical me to write a poem for a competition before fully checking the requirements.