Cowboy Poetry

On a dusty, vacant street

an earie silence hovers.

Two men stand on opposite ends

sizing up each other.

The townsfolk hide behind windows,

some peeking through cracked doors.

They all scattered quickly

and now cluster in shops and stores.

Only these two remain,

their shadows, long on the ground.

As they slowly begin walking forward,

spurs are the only sound.

Their sights remain fixed

into each others stare.

Both looking for any nervousness

or apprehension there.

Keeping a steady pace

with all the courage they can muster,

each one carefully lifts a hand

and moves aside his duster.

Lying low upon their hips,

weathered from the sun,

each man wears a leather holster,

cradling their gun.

Both of them stop right then,

boots rooted where they stand.

Their arms are poised at their sides,

fingers twitching on their hand.

Waiting for a move from each other,

with still no sign of the law.

It'll come down to the one man

who's quicker on the draw.

In an instant flash,

like that of a lightning bolt,

each man flicks a hand

and fires off their Colt.

The air is thick and acrid,

the townsfolk filled with fear.

They curiously peer out

as the smoke begins to clear.

Only one man remains standing

alive and still alert.

He surrvived the gunfight.

The other lies prone in the dirt.

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