Slouched in summer’s unrest,

I thought I remembered holding the

Pages of a story, shadows racking

Across it to escape the sun’s heat.

Maybe it was the heat-yes it was the heat-

How could it be real?

It was just a story.

A man with that same look

Something resting at the corners

Of his mouth, a disinterested angle,

Of a smoke,


Because of the burning in his eyes

And gaunt cheeks of weariness

That yearned for a sweet, bitter release.

It was just a story.

Or maybe not.

The rivulets of gun smoke float across the fence,

Disfigured forms driven by hunger

Writhe in the gravel street,

While a lone figure

Is standing in a field of red thorn roses

His stare stoic with icy eyes that did

Not care for

The boy,

Or the old man,

Or any love,

Only for his lost fingers that cannot

Grab the pistols at his sides.  Two precious pistols.

It was just a story.

His hands are too intimate with those pistols

That snap out before seconds have begun.

It began, I know, with personal vengeance

And ended with ultimate truth

In the seventh tower,

Or the twelfth, doesn’t matter, just a story, right?

That crimson robe once animated,

Now in tatters, rippling in the wind

Like his disinterest that still perceives nothing

But a dish best served cold.

Yes-it was the heat.  Just a story.


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