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Array
(
[sid] => 71914
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Gunfighters Lament
[time] => 2004-11-17 10:56:50
[hometext] => Thank you YPDC for the no line limit. this was written in 87' and actually my favorite. Enjoy.
[bodytext] => There once was a man, and when in his prime. Fought for his live, and was blamed for the crime. A runnin' he went, because there's no time. The tables were turned, against him lifetime. Because of this deed, blood was to be shed. He rode most the day, to the hills he fled. Followed by posse, who wanted him dead. In greed, a great price was placed on his head. The sun kept fading, behind the big hill. A camp to be made, he had to rest still. His horse was a breathin', heavy at will. No fire tonight, with warmth to fulfill. Head on his saddle, his mount at his side. Thinkin' in darkness, "Could it be their pride?" Tossin' and turnin', asleepin' one-eyed. A fire he spotted, atop a distant hillside. Wee hours of mornin', quickly he went. Sun hadn't risen, on leather hell bent. Ridin' plenty of miles was the intent. Put distance between them, was the time spent. He rode and he rode, till mid afternoon. No one in sight, he'll be far away soon. The day was quite warm, this day in June. Might still be ridin', by the light of the moon. By nightfall, he came on a small movin' stream. A fire, biscuit, and some jerky it seems. To fill empty belly, sleep fall to dream. Of passed events, woke him in a night scream. Sweat broke his brow, of a lifetime nightmare. Ever a night, even old age aware. Town to town driftin', he had to beware. Young men who'd kill him, without any care. Titled an outlaw, of ages ago. A travelin' nowhere, his plight to know. Kept followin' the wind, wherver she'd blow. No place on earth, or home to bestow. Here he did sit, by campfire light. Many years did pass; his hair had turned white. A lonely old man, it didn't seem right. That he paid the price, a gunfighters plight. Over and over, it went through his mind. Hauntingly, taunting a constant remind. Of so-called justic, was ever so blind. To peace he deserved, would he ever find? He stared at the fire, as in a trance. The silence was broke, by twig snappin' dance. Another one's makin', a hasty advance. Would this be the end, or just a mischance? Hid in the basin, of Ol' Wild Horse Gap. Off in the distance, he heard thunderclap. Easily lifting, the gun hammer strap. In the back of his mind, yelled: "It's a trap!" Spring to foot turnin', what was to be fate? Life or death partner, which one was his mate? Bullets ablazen', he had to shoot straight. Though wantin' to be at heavens front gate. In blackness of night, with starlit contrast. Shot was fired, a red flamin' blast. A straight movin' bullet hit him at last. Destiny to be, for this ol' outcast. He laid there in silence, with gratitude. It now would be over, no more to feud. No fightin' or runnin', just solitude. "Thank you," he whispered, a soft prelude. There he did lie, in a pool of red blood. The other did lay, face down in the mud. Both had been robbed of their given lifeblood. Dead dusty ol' bones were taken by flood. This is a story that could have been true. A gunfighter who, no one really knew. How many others, could this be of too? Who changed their lives, to an outlaw's view. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 233 [topic] => 31 [informant] => SWCSuzyQ [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 8 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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