Gunslinger

Dusty trails and rusted nails adorned this shadow town

Empty husks of people walk to and fro without sound

Wind blows and sun bleaches the dead and gone

Dusty trails and human fragility adorn this musty town.

An empty saloon, selling the brown liquor tombs of a by-gone age

Creases and cracks, and wooden flaks creak with the footsteps of the day

Retention of silence, a pious withdrawal as the day clocks down by the age spots on the wooden walls.

The people walk but never stop for a moment to care or exchange.

The go about their lives never seeking an answer why the town is this way.

Revolvers in hand, death is grand for any who may happen to speak out here

Lonesome walks, the wind only talks with whispers in the ears

The gunslinger man, a killer so grand and traveler of the open road

Calloused he is of worldly thoughts; at the cock of a hammer another body drops.

Gritty and rustic he is the example of what is to become of  a boy in this land

Kill or be killed, blood you will spill if you dare to live in the ever blowing sands.

Wild and livid yet he’ll keep living by the death of what he yields in his hand

A gunslinger free, a gunslinger to be when we all walk into a world of the unfamiliar

Gunslinger man, steady in face and stance ride on and on until you reach the Promised Land.