A fast hand, a fast gun the shooter letting his iron do the thinking. Death of another in which he has lost all consciousness, a shame because he died himself with the first man he killed with a shooter’s iron!
Piece of iron
held by leather
holster hangs down
iron his hand better
gun seems a part
balanced his hand
as a magician and hat
men fear and regard
death can come fast
from a shooter’s iron
Holster slick
smooth the slide
as flesh and lead collide
warmth the iron
smoke each time fired
someone’s surely dyin’
He’s not on a cattle drive
the smell and sound he likes
and some guy a bullet bite
a shooter’s iron a life decide
To death now calloused
just another man
trying to beat a fast hand
something in him aroused
how his hand, the touch of iron
a sort of natural harmony
no remorse or cryin’
crime of soul robbery
death squeezes a trigger
another man faces a shooter’s iron quicker!
Photo Credit – Danny Martin art at Flicker.com
Poetry
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