wore suit bespoke

wore suit bespoke

They prompted my request's constrain,
- the ghostly harbor and sixth sense -
I knew the mowing death's sequence,
- same notion haunted me again.

Have heard the windy, short advice -

of those who left along their pride, 

and sailed on the ocean's tide,
"disputed man must be precise".

The storm was thumping rhythmic waves,

the fates demanding new death tolls,
in town the women wore black stoles,
the 'killed in duel' dwell in graves;

As dusk befell, our vessel moored
inside the port on shoot down's edge,
much red was shed on cypress sedge,
my instincts sharpened and inured.

Tall stood he on the wharf, I knew
the ropes were whipping on the mast,
we drew the guns, he lifted fast,
my guns shot down, respect to ensue.

I felt the slug, he moved across,
already a ghost on moorings stood,
I tasted blood, got up, I should,
with red drops staining grass and moss.

(I saw her standing on the field
amid red poppies and tall trees,
her thought became my holy shield,
bestowing forth, her grace in breeze.

She spread her arms and called me aft,
above the clouds to Astral Halls
cognizing specter, flying waft
where blinking stars transmit their calls.)

Was wearing hat and suit bespoke

with people watching me round-eyed;
perchance a dueler did die,
as darkness wore her reigning cloak.

© 08-05-2012, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Tetrameter - revised on 2016-08-05)