The Rider With No Face

It seems like in some dream or in some other place, I first saw that image – the rider with no face. It was no homemade mask, scarf or old flour sack, Just newly scarred flesh with piercing eyes that stared back. He wore a dark sombrero and rode a pale white horse— Never said a word ‘cause he had no mouth of course. I could see his black holster with silver inlay As sun glinted on it and clouds all rolled away. And though he had no lips, I swore he spoke my name: “Turn to thyself,” I heard him say, “never know shame.” Then he turned round and trotted off into the black, As I quickly took aim and shot him in the back. Then as I stood by him and watched him slowly die, He began to then change and I did not know why. I looked at that nameless face and there I did find, A face I now recognized and that face was mine.