Crossroad battles

Force fields are patched up with      
emotions loitering spare,      
characteristically water proof.    
My rifle stares, dead eyes sombre;      
whilst the tongue lies in wait,
fervently filing its tip.    
The show down between myself and      
the crossroad kindles alight with dusk.    
     
Willowy wisps snatch at my senses,    
attempting to nullify them jaded.    
Puppets are always easier to      
handle when drained pliant,    
crossroads thrusting obligation    
upon their chosen victims.    
     
Dreams thrive within my tilted chin    
pared with irises narrowed infuriated,    
reality and fantasy embrace each other      
forming a psychological eclipse.    
Darkness ensures an opportunity solid,    
my opponent temporarily blinded.    
A trigger is pulled, a battle is won.    
Now, bring on the war.