Noon

I've received an invitation to dance, but I'm belly aching.
I'm too fit to be tied, my whole body is shaking.
I'm fixen to hang fire, I can't stop deliberating.
Decided that I will die standing up, but don't find that invigorating.

So I'm a. . .
Dead man walking. . .
Make way. . . Make way.
I move slowly but with purpose. . .
No Brains.
Limping on, broken, but there's no pain.
Despite different efforts, there's no change.

What's there to hope in? My sense of dread is deepening.
Murky past and misty future, I cannot foresee a thing.
It's time to face the music, but I don't want to hear a thing.
From synapse to synapse, I don't want to feel a thing.

Ears ring, sweat drips as the clock ticks.
The atmosphere in the waiting room is toxic.
I had a sense of security, but the locks picked.
I was told not to play with fire, but the whole match box' lit.

Now I can smell the smoke, but it's not concerning.
I can feel the heat, but I'm not burning.
I make mistake after mistake, but I'm not learning.
The doors are closing, and the pages are turning.

I'm hankering for a way out, I don't wanna be in this mismatch.
Like an old western pic, I don't wanna face this man.
I've got all the ammo, I got good aim, but I feel like I'm going to miss man. . .
and with the most simple of ease, I'm gonna be dispatched.

I feel detached and gravitate to the pressure of plight.
Like being swallowed by a black hole, it's consuming light.
Stumbling in the wrong direction, like I'm losing sight.
Get blocked off, I can't see over this obstacle cause of my diminutive height.
This underdog has a weak bark, and is losing his bite.
I'm not the type to visit Overtoun Bridge, I won't go down without a fight.

As my shadow starts to fade, it's high noon.
So I gear up, and walk onwards to my doom.
Passing by the gossip that floats in the saloon.
I turn yaller but still drift helplessly like a hot air balloon.

What comes out of leaky mouths is worth a hill of beans to me.
Hazing a tenderfoot is a chance they take by any means you see.
They will yarn the hours away while I'm buried at the cemetery.
My time is up, I lookie yonder and see my adversary.

He had his pistol ready, and was as stone faced as a beefeater.
I wondered. . .Why is an instrument of war called a Peacekeeper?
Chuckled at that thought, my adversary thought it was a disrespectful demeanor.
That soured his milk, he took an early shot and I almost got a taste of that metal receiver.

Oh what have I done?
I should have held my tongue.
I almost got hit by a bad plum.
and it's too late to cut and run.

I take my shots, miss and get hit, oh, I'm sorry. . .
Bullet through the heart, the hero dies in this story.
Belly up, I look up at the sky which i cotton to.
As pitch black swallows all the shades of blue.  

I know what i have to do
But confrontation scares me
Between us there is a spittoon
But currently it's empty

I need to say what I need to say
Even though it's scary
There will always be better days
When there is always honesty

Yes, I know what I have to do
But I can't do it,
I can't look you in the eye
And disappoint you with the truth
Sometimes it's easier to lie

But I'll be honest, I'll be true
Even when plunged into plight
So that in my story, my high noon
The hero doesn't die.

KP23