Written In Blood Poem by Paul Warren

There's a scoundrel in the wings
He's drunk again hear him sing
For whisky is the taste for him
And his songs the wind to me brings

In his day no one to him could match
And women thought him quite a catch
For that was then and now is now
But I am not saying his lost the know how

I reckon he still had some fight
In his eyes the fire still burned bright
And he kept his weapons closer still
Revenge you see was a bitter pill

He was his own counsel those days
Wrestling with his soul in countless ways
In dreams at night he felt her lips again
Wanting more but knowing she was at an end

Some thought that he was no more
A coward for whom drinking was now the score
One day as the sun rose through the morning dew
With not a word he rode away too

At first there was no word
And they said he was gone his life absurd
Then a package came to his home
His brother opened it when he was alone
It was a dried scalp with a label attached
Written on it in blood Spiro and the in hair matched

The months went by and other packages came
With each scalp labeled in blood named
Montana, Hendricks and Jones
All matching scalps and all known

One day the last package came
That for his brother was named
And on unwrapping it he stepped back
Four sets of eyes were packed tight with whisky Jack

There was a note attached to the jar
Bury this at her feet her grave not to mar
So the next day he did as was told
The sun setting to the desert cold

We never saw him again
For he drifted as on the wind
Not to return to his home town
His wife's grave now alone found

But they say it did not end there
For at sundown when the desert is bare
You may see four desperados wandering in the dark
All blind crying for mercy stark.

© Paul Warren Poetry