Six empty shells
he walked the distance to adjoin his fate,
a swirling, laughing wind began to slide
and jokingly their lives to desecrate.
Despite the heat, he wore the tailored suit
of color black; beneath the Stetson's shade
his stare was sweeping the contacting butte,
with dusty ghosts to mime an odd charade.
Replacing the six empty shells he turned
to see her worried glance beyond the blooms,
that innocent, embellished unconcerned
the recklessness of braves aside their tombs.
The Smith and Wesson forty-fours, then, bucked,
she knew the blooming noon was ending fast
and nothingness neglected to obstruct
what fates adjudicated to recast.
She saw the copper shells to fall in dust;
monochromatic synthesis and hues
of sunset were blurring in the gust
that whirling sang their lonesomeness and blues.
Beyond the turnpike, where the roads converge
a flock of crows was messaging the tale,
the spinning wind was bringing up their dirge,
on the deserted Arizona trail.
© 2014-08-24, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
