Marathon

Twenty-six bullets and the Marathon's
run rampant and rancid,
a soured delicacy of despoiled human
glory for the sentience of outsiders
to sample;
gory champagne.
Dunrandal's dismayed, persuaded away,
and I am gunslinger-champion. Chaplain of
Christ-in-chamber; pistol salvation, holy handgun.

Just a unimpressive poem in an attempt to get myself back into updating this. It's written about Bungie's Marathon game, reflecting on the fact that I always find myself having to fall back on the handgun. I tried to make it as minimalist (I guess it could be called) as possible, but really didn't execute that effectively. Word choice and diction are alright, I guess, but probably on the bland side. It is an update, though.

Screw artistry and its opinions.