I’m a Bullet

It’s hard to remember one’s birth, but I think I just came flying out of a barrel. Although I’m traveling very fast, I’ll try to note what I see while I zigzag around. 

First I pass by a puppy. Then I pass by a chicken. Then I pass by a cow and some sheep, and narrowly miss a farmer and his wife. 

Now I’m heading toward the woods. Many near-misses ensue, but I remain a passerby.

Now I’m out of the woods and speeding toward a public square, where there’s a large group of citizens gathered before a platform — I decide to pause for a moment at the podium. Once I’ve gotten the crowd’s attention, after making sure that the microphone is working, I deliver a passionate sermon about gun control. 

The conclusion of my impromptu speech is met with applause. I then give salutations and continue on my way.

Now I’m zooming toward the region of the plains where all the hunters are practicing archery. It’s an open-air shooting range. There is only enough time to voice a quick hello before I reach my destination: the bullseye of a target. (This one belongs to Mister Cupid.) Here, my life comes to its end. 

I had a good run. My only regret is that, when landing, I happened to split the arrow that was stuck in this same center position. I wish I could’ve found a place to lodge that was not already occupied; for I dislike injuring anything — even objects that are insentient.