Gundown

The haze did a dance before the saloon in the ghost town of my dreams; the batwing doors swung a nervous creak, rusted hinges, muted screams. A high noon clock with a warping hand failed to count the seconds pass, and the whole world froze in a fiery frieze like dust in a whisky glass. Tumbleweed bowled along the street where the blood of ages dried; and the hot tongue of the firebrand breeze licked the bones of that which died. My tears they fell and turned to ash as they struck the shifting sand, with my dying wishes planted deep in the dirt of a barren land. Prayers from the barrel of an old six gun fired on the distant plain, into the sky in the blink of an eye to never be heard again. Gundown my hopes and all my faith in a random hail of lead, a forty-five calibre massacre that left my love for dead. Gundown the future and the world with an aim so straight and true; only leave just a hole in the dark of my soul where the light may again shine through...