The writings of Hunter Coch

Archive for September 10, 2009

Poem: Forget the Numbers (Part #1, draft #1). . . #westernwednesday

Time is short,
and the sun is high,
barrels smoke,
heaving sigh.

Burning tears,
from the pierce in my hide,
deep breath,
pain on my side.

Jumping for shelter,
man and his guns,
life in the moment,
in pain he runs.

A shot from the tower,
another from the well,
two more from a wagon,
one behind the bell.

Praying for an angel,
looking to the sky,
forgetting the numbers,
I stood and let fly.

Bodies fall,
death flies in fire,
from extended hands,
the tole runs higher.

“STOP!” yells the man,
streets run silent,
but screams sound from the saloon,
thrown through a window, a woman, affluent.

Olive skin,
against sky of pale blue,
red rage in the eyes of beauty,
then the bullets flew.

Tears of an emotional pain,
dead in the dirty street,
her eyes to the heavens,
executioner at her feet.

Memories run,
of last nights kiss,
and a dance on the mattress,
lost in bliss.

Last night with a wife,
words spoken without voice,
standing in the early dawn,
leaving without a choice.

Now it ends,
in the sadistic joy,
of a villain,
playing with a toy.

Turning in turmoil,
head in dizzy despair,
Knees in the hard dirt,
feeling for the lost fair.

Rage replaces sorrow,
head aches with pain,
and I walk,
hate, in the lead rain.

Sadistic sixshooter,
apathetic stride,
hate takes the moment,
letting the bullets ride.

And men go falling,
to the dry and dusty road,
rage in my eyes,
vengeance is owed.

Then a click,
and empty chambers,
pulling the trigger,
nothing answers.

One left alive,
executioner smiles,
my rage to despair,
empty were the miles.

The villain stands,
his irons raised to my brow,
I close my eyes,
wondering how.

Praying for an angel,
looking to the sky,
forgetting the numbers,
I stood and asked why.

He laughed at me,
in the desert town,
striking my head,
I went down.