A lonesome crow calls
From some far away place.
A wagon rolls on by,
It's bell clanging,
Heavy wheels felt under my feet.
The sweat pours from my brow,
The same time a chill, runs
Down my spine.
Three...Two...One
I hold my breath for the countdown.
Not eager to face
My enemy.
Cold, black metal
Held to my side
Trigger finger, tense, ready.
Granddaddy's gun,
Engraved with our name.
Legend.
The same blacksmith looks on
From his shop on the corner.
The clouds roll in.
The dust swirls,
The dry grass whispers my name.
Ribbons of filtered light
Mesmerize me.
And then nothing.
No sound to be heard
Except the blood rushing past my ears.
Three..
I jump, remembering.
Two....
I raise my gun with both hands.
One...
I turn,
Like a blink of an eye.
Pull the trigger.
The barrel kicks back,
And I watch him fall, instantly
To the ground.
My gun, still smoking.
Author notes
Contest. The Real West.
A contest entry
- The Real West by Haygood.
1750 points, ended November 13, 11 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you feel? How can you relate?
Comments
-
In the mind of...
I don't know what it would take to pull a gun and end a life. It is different now. I think to protect, I could. You didn't give the circumstance behind the shooting. Just that he did it. The dead man was an enemy. So the shooter was the "good guy"? Since you didn't give any reason, I would guess this is to provoke thoughts...it did. Enjoyed.
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