Rise up Dead Man

The wheeled horse stomps, no dignity nor strength,

the occasional shrieks and howls, nothing more,

the day grew old, only the dusk horizon beyond,

tinted by the dust, ever more it grew,

the man with the hat, sat slim on the carriage,

a mask for the grim, a covered apparel,

a roaming gunslinger, none to take, none remained,

his gaze grew as black as the sky, a deep moan came from the back,

his duality, his partner, a saint by his back that fought many evils, 

the shadows, the fouls, the shackled,

now it was only a grave reminder, of the journey soon to end,

the thought that remains in the emptiness, for he was soon to become mindless,

a corpse that walks they called it, a marred conscience lied within,

first came the rashes, for he was bright red and senseless,

then came defacement, for he is nearing,

and then silence, a silent spirit, a silent mind,

from which they rise, a new entity,

the coughing worsened, so the gunslinger stopped by the road,

he carried his friend, with care and grace,

they stopped by a boulder, so amorphous in the dark,

he laid his ailing partner down, and prepared him for heaven,

the weakened soul grabbed his shoulder, and he leaned in to a whisper,

a sign of compassion, of mercy and forgiving,

it was meant to be, and then he went to sleep,

the gunslinger kneeled for awhile, and darkened his lids,

murmured in prayer, hoping for it to stop,

yearning and yearning, the anarchy and chaos,

he reached for his holster, but his hand quivered,

a terrible mistake, for hesitance got the better and he did not end the ritual,

he was no undertaker, yet he buried many,

he mustn’t not, he thought to himself,

to have grief overwhelm, like the disease coursing through your stream,

corrupting your soul, and let darkness fall upon light,

the fallen was a dead man, and he was soon to be as well,

there was no escape, no hope nor home, 

no honor and glory,

judgement day is here, and everyone signed up,

but now was not the moment, a new journey shall commence,

the gunslinger rose up and strided away, but he stood frail, and strides turned to stagger,

leaving his partner to bleed, to the evening creatures of the new age,

the shadows cast stretched, the law will soon crumble,

no man knows where the madness began, for it came like the wind,

the gunslinger tucked his hat, and sat by a fire,

the old tales he remembered, for he was an old man,

strong and weathered, a lone wolf in the wild,

the last to fall, were burdened with sorrow

some feet away, a moan came to wake,

he looked in the distance, a shadow came alive,

moving with difficulty, it wandered near,

his old friend, a new enemy,

he draw his gun, along a thud, and then a sigh

it rang through the night, until dawn is almost, 

he was numb with fatigue, numb with remorse,

the morning was young, but he still longed for slumber

the specters howled, rise up dead man, 

no time to rest, no time at all,

and so he arose, and walked to his saddle,

no room for repentance, for guilt is a dead man’s tale,

he was yet to tumble, yet to meet the fate of many others,

for a lesson he must muster, that no regret shall linger,

in this new world, instinct is survival,

for you must keep going, no matter what dread looms ahead,

even if no soul remain, in the end it will surely be a tale,

and so the gunslinger ruffled his hat, and galloped into the blinding sun.