Die By The Sword Poem by Michael John Cook

His chances now slimming with each minute that passed,
No sound, only flickering light through broken glass,
They had come in their dozens to make his arrest,
He would make sure their valiance was put to the test,
All of his family now safely escorted to the street,
Alone now, facing his end, counting every heartbeat,
The wind whistled eerily through the broken windows,
The light of day now extinct and he surrounded by his foes,
From the silence, a voice rang out, loud and clear,
'Come out with you're hands up, let's end it here'
He was not fooled by this offer of a peaceful end,
They had come to see him die and their loved ones avenged,
A sentence, that in all honesty, he justly deserved,
Yet, a retribution that most outside had no right to serve,
He drew one last, deep, lingering, fateful breath,
Then decided it time to choose the fate of his death,
With both pistols in hand, loaded, full and raised,
He kicked open the front door and ran into the haze,
No martyred end would be bestowed upon him,
The life from his body dwindled as did the lights dim,
He had taken at least four more souls before he had succumbed,
The blood from his wounds poured over limbs now lifeless and numb,
With fortune he could not hear his families cries of pain,
His only remorse that he would not see them again,
And with barely a regret for his murderous past,
He coughed and drew deeply the breath that would be his last,
No mournful funeral parade to send him on his way,
Just a unmarked grave at which no soul would ever pray