Pistols at Dawn

Not the best of ways
To greet a new day


He lowered his arm but did not relax the muscles within. He was unsettled with good reason; fate was dawning and setting in the East. His stare was strong; it lay fixed upon his rival’s hand. He watched his rival about to draw, he reached for his own gun but his hand suddenly exploded.

Lend me your fright
You know it’s my rite

He screamed in pain, his contender stared in bewilderment. He peered at his pistol and saw no sign of any bullets having been liberated, a full round still sat sound in his barrel. “How?” He whispered,
“How has this happened?”

All things cannot be left with clarification
Sometimes chance is the only salvation

The rival raised his pistol. He wasn’t sure what had just happened but such happening had not happened to change what was happening between them so logically the rival took stance. His eyes narrowed, the corner of his unshaven jaw clenched with concentration.

Dawn’s pistol held truth within its own lost youth
To loss such and gain the same is almost uncouth

“Please no, it is unfair, unjust, I am helpless” The man said, holding the stub that was his hand. He needed a hand, that was for sure but no sympathy came from his foe’s narrow, foggy peepers.
The foe had no sympathy or pity; he had lost them both long ago.

The dawn of death is a stable for peace
That keeper in his hood acts as police

The bitter hand of demise fell on the feeble man’s shoulder; the same hand squeezed the trigger and guided the yearning bullet to its destiny. The shot spilt the skin that clung to the man’s skull and bore through the thick bone until it could be found deeply lodged in his mind.

Stopped clocks and time linger veiled in history
It’s what has happened that remains the mystery