From one little piss water town to the next.
After awhile he simply didn't give a damn to remember.
Those that hadn't fallen along the way, if that lucky had headed towards the border.
Never looking back trying their damnedest to forget.
But still he remained.
Blood on his hands and the constant promise of death upon the wind.
The gunman told himself it was him or me, it broke most.
Haunted their nightmares and Billy slept like a baby.
Some men are not bound by fear.
But are truly shackled by ego.
Legend should not be mentioned amongst the living.
For it poisons the mind.
Causes hatred amongst men, women lust for the outlaw forgetting the man behind the title.
Trusted friends soon know envy.
And the well becomes poisoned and bitter with regrets.
There was nowhere left to run.
That's why he simply sat and waited the night Pat came to see him.
Had he not killed his old friend another would have only taken up the quest.
Not only did his head have a price.
His name carried a weight, and others longed to be known as the one that slayed the dragon so to speak.
The oil lambs glow did little to show the shadows.
Like old ghost that hid in the corners.
He knew this man was his friend.
And as the bullet passed through his body.
He knew he would run no longer.
He had lived long enough to believe his own bullshit.
The ego defeated the mind as he bled out upon that dusty floor.
He knew a true friend would never shoot another in the back.
He apparently read him wrong.
About John Patrick Robbins:
He is the author of A Cold Beer Beats A Warm Heart.
Available on Amazon published by Alien Buddha Press.
He is also the editor and chief of the Rye Whiskey Review.
His publications include:
Blognostics, Angry Old Man Magazine, Outlaw Poetry Network, Ariel Chart, Romingos Porch, Red Fez, Spill The Words, Under The Bleachers, Horror Sleaze Trash, Blue Pepper, Synchronized Chaos.
His work is always unfiltered.