The tempo is set
the thousand mile gaze upon
for whom the bell tolls.

Knuckles tight, fingers loose
sweat pouring like waterfalls
the strain on the soul.

How short life?
What reasons are good to die?

The sun up high
blisters on feet not even felt
a quarter ounce of lead is all that matters.

Focus perceived
time slows to a standstill
the peel begins, the eternal battle goes.

Nothing else matters
as I reach for my gun.

All ends with a thought
the crack of sound that kills
fleeting life at the mercy of fate.

No heroes wrought from peaceful times
the crack and draw of a body's fall
the winner is left picking up the pieces.

One man wasted, the other a waste,
what will become of us?

11/05/2006