December 13, 2009
By rumbecome BRONZE, Felton, California
rumbecome BRONZE, Felton, California
1 article 0 photos 0 comments


The scratchy lining of his hat
Itched his sweaty forehead
As the sun beat down
On the dead quiet street

A horse sneezed
And stomped her leg
As the hungry flies
Bit at her knee

His mind drifted away
Silencing him to the street,
As his face smirked
To the smiles of his son,
And the laughs of his daughter
Who he envisioned now,
To be playing
With their cheerful mother
In the cool icy river,
Behind their meadow.

He sighed
As the sun reflected
On his sheriff badge,
And he scratched his stubbled chin,
While resting his tired hand
On the hilt of his holster

He was a gentle man
A calm sheriff
Rightfully chosen,
To deem those guilty
And those innocent

His soft green gaze
Knew the faces of
Liars and killers,
To those wrongly blamed.

Glancing to the muddy street,
Down the wooden porch
He went,
Passed the nearly soundless Saloon
To do his rounds.

His scuffed leather boots
Tapped on the stairs
As he walked
But he froze in his step
When his fluffy black dog
Came trotting
Around the corner.

He furrowed his brow
And spoke as he kneeled
In his torn pants,
What you doin’ here pal?
But even through the fur
Around the canines dark gaze
He noticed an off expression
In the dogs old face.

As his paws padded off
Across the porch
And he disappeared
Around the building,
He noticed a silence
A different type of silence
Than quiet.

A type of silence
Only made from
As those we love fade
And leave us
With unknown empty

Knowing this silence
From family and horses
Long gone,
He jumped down the steps
Reaching for his gun,
And tripped on something
As he landed.

When he rose
With mud and a foul taste
In his mouth,
His heart
His eyes cried out
Tears of rage
But his voice was silent.

Lay still beside their dog,
All with bullets
Buried in their chests.

No! No!

His cracking voice yelped
As his panicking gaze
Flew from the basket
Of spilled cookies
Laying beside his wife,
To a trampled daisy
In his sons
Cold curled hand,


Tears drained from his
Destroyed eyes
As he ran to cradle the boy,
In his shaking arms

Tried he did,
To look into the glassy
Brown young eyes,
But blurred vision
And an unbelieving heart,
Tore him away.
Letting the curly blonde head
Roll to the ground.

Where are you!

His hoarse voice roared
And he pulled his gun
From the holster
And bolted down
The shadowed ally way

Where are you!

His relentless screams
Of fury and sadness,
Echoed down
The eerily silent street
Till his eyes found
A cloud of dust
Drifting into the dry
Empty Sky
From a quarter mile away,
Raced by three horses
Carrying three horrid men.

As his long legs
Spun and drove him past
His dead silent family
And panting lost dog,
He failed to notice
The people of the town
Panicked and gathering
While shouting out
To the widowed Sheriff.

Wait! His Deputy yelled

His rage blinded him
From all other sounds

Stop! The Deputy tried again
In pursuit of his frantic partner.

But deaf to all around him,
He leapt onto his sweaty horse.

He kicked her sides
And left the town,
Following the distant
Sights of the dust
Of the killers,
The silent murderers
Who could have been stopped,
It was his fault only
That they were not.

With his daughter’s
Sweet giggle
Burning in his head,
And soft words of love
From his wife
Drowning in his heart,
Flooded with shame.

He wouldn’t stop
And he didn’t stop
Until his family
Was avenged.

When the hot sun slept
That summer night,
He crept into the bushes
Surrounding the killers’ camp

And as their fire
Sang its final tunes
And went quiet as the men
Laid on their blankets
And slept with bellies
Full of stolen whiskey,
He readied his gun.

With his family’s love
Sleeping in his guilt-filled chest,
He silently moved
Into the camp and his heart
Thundered when he noticed
A glint of an open eye
From one of the men.

He fired and jumped
And the man fell dead
When the other two
Awoke and shot
Their pistols back at him

Before he could move
Their bullets were sinking
In his chest,
But his own
Were now in their brains
And they flopped to the ground
As his shaking hands
Pulled the trigger.

And he fell onto his back,
Rightfully after they did,
As his chest splintered
With a roaring pain.

Never again
Did the Sheriff rise.
The battle of his family
Was his very last.

As his fading green eyes
Flickered to the
Quiet stars and moon,
The bright sky darkened,
His limbs contorted,
His draining blood froze,
And his heart, stained with fault
And sorrow,


The author's comments:
This summer I wrote a novel set in the 1800's and the cowboys, horses, and sheriffs greatly influenced this poem. I enjoy writing about death, that is why this was made.

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