Deathwalk
It was November of the mourn
In shootouts challenged life but worn,
the lines of worriness on brow.
Holding a smoke, his lonely being,
his hands steady on deathly sin,
in all gunfights, he had to draw.
And he was fast, ever so fast,
as both his hands suddenly flashed,
with sixes' thunderous echo.
Twas noon, he stood on same deathwalk,
devil of dust and the gunsmoke,
dry winds in Tombstone derecho.
Instinctively ejected shells,
replaced bullets, some rung the bells,
- unfavorable her eyes amber.
And ever since when dry gusts swirl,
her eyes in soul turn thoughts to hurl,
cause of the dead gunfighters numb'r.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
Added by Poetry Lover
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