• darrianlynx 4w

    Ode to the Railroad Man

    Steel gray like the city before the brightness
    of the sun ambles out from behind the peaks
    mourning and softening to a deep purple
    in the distant past.
    Far behind the roiling dust kicked into animation
    by the thundering hooves of a sturdy,
    unfaltering steed spurred on by the angst
    and righteous fury of a tall,
    unforgiving dealer of death and justice,
    whichever serves the purpose at hand.
    A hand steady on the gun as it is
    on the amber, smooth glass of whiskey
    thrown back in a dank smoke filled saloon
    with wooden doors and women
    who ask no pardon for their overflowing corsettes
    and skirts that spill like silken waterfalls
    down their ample, milky white thighs,
    the very thighs that wrap around
    the thrusting waists of both gentleman
    and the not so gentle men of the railroad
    whom drink their fill and gamble
    until someone gets caught cheating
    and shots ring out as women run for cover
    and men over throw tables and find satisfaction
    in the connection of fist with stubbled jaw.
    He has one goal and one passion
    in his sullied heart and the soul
    he wonders daily, no, even hourly
    whether it is still capable of redemption
    after the death he has seen
    and the death he has brought
    at his own relentless hand,
    deaths he could no more avoid than
    the lioness can avoid the death of her prey.
    Deaths brought about by war,
    war fought by every capable young man
    of honor and integrity,
    an integrity far more slippery than
    the wet thighs of the whore marked for life
    by Indian warriors deep in the undergrowth
    and shame of the wildest prairie
    where she fought and screamed
    as the painted natives slaughtered her husband,
    stole her child, then inflicted upon her
    all of the hate and all of the pain
    that the white man brought to their people
    as they stood helpless with bows and arrows,
    no match for the bullet
    that pierces their leather vests
    as though they are fashioned from butter.
    Steel gray, the color of his eyes
    that pierce through the souls of every Christian,
    every Mormon, and every gentile man
    that crosses his path.
    The color of the smoking gun on his hip
    and the bullets that pierce the heart
    of any Native, Irish, Asian, or Freedman
    who dares step toe to toe
    with the lanky, sinewy, and deadly accurate
    epitome of damnation in a wide brimmed hat.