Michael P. McParland
Wind Across The Barren Land
Fierce and howling winds sweep across this barren land.
All dead and stationary thing are quickly buried in the sand.
The land is now in constant gloom,
the does not shine yet you'll never see the bright bold moon.
It's just overcast and near to black,
but bright enough to see the death.
He stands alone in this wasteland of olden days.
A gunslinger here to fight on through,
dealing justice as he travels somewhere far and somewhere wide,
Nobody knows where or why just stay straight or else you'll die.
His nerves are steel his heart is cold,
Only filled with the justice, needs, and goals he holds.
Wandering through a land so dark.
Yet still so hot this empty barren land does mock.
Calling shouting slapping you,
with the fierce wind that swoop and whip
with killing screams of tortured dreams.
This man lost all his home and love so long ago
He's been traveling now for ages gone.
Who can guess he's never here but for food and drink and a small fit of rest.
He only stays if justice needs dealt.
Then he quickly and quietly goes about his work.
Hanging up the meat of rotten stock.
He moves on to pastures far,
looking for what it is he tracks in valiant deed.
Never thinking of ending his quest.
To save the world?
You have a guess.
He wanders lonely thinking only of his loses from his past.
What he could have done to change that hand.
In his misery he rides and rides just dealing justice,
for in a way it fills the void and gives him purpose.
Of which he lost so long ago,
when he was robbed of loving family safety and cherished home.
Through these dark waste lands here before us.
A nameless gunslinger rides forever deeply focused.
On finally cleaning out the evil deeds,
by dealing justice full to the men who set out to hurt and bleed,
the good people who work and strive to live full lives.
Of virtue in honest dealings, truth, and eachothers pride.
When he comes on through a new town full of country folk.
They stand in awe pure silence not a single word dare be spoke.
They've heard of him and can't quite believe,
the truth of the tales surrounding he.
They hurry to take care of all his needs.
For the horse goes feeding drinking a good thorough scrubbing,
The gunslinger himself is in desperate need of cleaning.
So now it's time to sit and eat drink some beers,
then head to bed he's eternally used up and quite beat,
The morning comes sheriff what just needs to be done.
Three men need to be given justice.
We'd much obliged if you helped deal this out right before us.
A grunt and nod he heads out to center yard.
Where justice is felt and no man put up there will live to tell.
Out their brought ropes put round their necks,
without a word he yanks the lever the trap door slips.
Another job of hanging up the rotten meat,
they're bad stock do not weep.
He saddles up his job here now is clean and through.
Ever onward in the darkness wasteland he does move.
A legend of such epic proportions could not be true so many speak without a pennies worth of brains or knowing.
He was real I know it's so.
Wandering around that barren dark wasteland of days grown old.
Wind swept courage that knew nor cared for one ounce of glory.
He stands today as a virtuous statue of truth and justice we lack this day.
So remember the good he handed out,
to help the people filled with good and kindness sharing throughout.
The lonely gunslinger with no known name.
He travels on beaten by the wind in this hot barren,
ugly lonely land.
Trapped inside his mind with losses,
riding forth hoping to find all the hope and pieces from which he was taken.
Topic of this poem: fiction
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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