The writings of Hunter Coch

Poem: This Devils Test (draft #1) . . . #WesternWednesday

This is a companion piece to the Poem, Six Bullets ’till Sundown.

I’m not 100% happy with the structer and flow of this one, but I’m tired and done for now. Enjoy

The dark man walked,
whistling melancholy tunes,
never talked,
looking for fortunes,
then in the wind cries, “Die!”

The desert was lonely with sage,
dust and windblown spires,
an improbable word of rage,
no ghost inspires,
sounded in the sky.

Colts set free,
pale eyes staring,
aching to spree,
and the heat blaring,
To the sight of emptiness.

He grinned,
and in the breeze,
on the lips of the hellish wind,
hands sought the ivory, itching to appease,
the lust in the lonesomeness.

The sky stretched blue,
with pillows of white,
and as the light grew,
so did the need to fight,
but the silence only stood on the sage spotted desert.

The dark man stands,
eyes in shadow,
hilts in hands,
feet in the meadow,
It came to hurt . . .

“Die! Son of a bitch!”
with silver knife,
and startled twitch,
and drops of red life,
fall slow.

Swinging with hungers rage,
his aged scalp gray,
dancing in the sage,
hunting to slay,
the dark man from below

Pale eyes held the motions,
skill sharpened his mind,
with calloused emotions,
waiting to repay in kind,
each slice of the knife.

Crimson splashed,
on the sagebrush,
the colors clashed
in his heated rush,
lusting for the dark mans life.

A moment came,
as he faced the west,
thunder without aim,
old man went to rest.

The dark man looked to the kill,
the kill with sights on the dealer,
“Son”, he said quiet and still,
“father”, spoke the dark revealer,
winning this devils test.

Away the dark man walked,
whistling melancholy tunes,
colts cocked,
heading to the deserts dunes,
Spirit of the desert sage.


One response

  1. Pingback: Poem: Six Bullets ’till Sundown (Draft #2) #westernwednesday « Your Predator

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