when the hands on the clock struck twenty-five hundred
a gun did appear in my hand
i watched as smoke wafted
through god’s wincing eye
its canopy cried out rufescent
a motley procession
of soporose passers-by
gave pause
to peer into the window
like daggers,
their fingers did pierce the still air
pointing
with hushed presumptions
gleaned most indolent
my insolence dared me to breathe
but the blood was too thin
and its truth
could not answer
now it is
that i was them
a shade ahead
without a horseman
Max, or Not 
“when the hands on the clock struck twenty-five hundred” is that kind of like “the twelfth of never”?
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it’s more like the first hour of an eternity thereof, in terms of death…
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You’d described what’s going on inside the shooters mind really well here, and the shooter is still, someone who’d been, misunderstood all her/his life, that is why s/he had, opened fire!
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