Only once before had his eyes fallen on his foe,

A time long ago that still tears his heart so,

Bringing back the boil to his bloods flow,

An arctic cold, his eyes now show,

He sees her die once more.

With an oath that he swore to and kept,

Every hour practiced, tears he wept,

Until he became the best,

Vowing, no longer will tears be shed,

Until he put him to rest.

Gilead, some knew as a drifter,

Others thought maybe just a grifter,

But those that lay dead once thinking they were faster,

Knew him to be a genuine Gunslinger,

And as the legend is told, there was only one man better,

The man Gilead‘s was quest for.

Wandering from town to town all across the land,

Gilead remembered a seventeen year olds hand,

Now his guns were drawn by a man,

Many who saw Gilead bowed as if he were grand,

Giving a wide berth from where he stands,

He often wondered if they honestly gave a damn.

In a town of shacks and mud,

Some place called Roland or such,

Either way, as a town it wasn’t much,

Gilead stood in front of a church, boots covered in muck,

The shadow of its cross between him and the one called Frost.

Staring at a man that seemed to defy age,

It all came back as Gilead stood before him in leather and lace,

The way his quarry had an ever changing face,

One glance he was Frost, the next a preacher fallen from Gods grace,

Then without warning he saw his beloved and for a second lost his faith,

Never seeing the bullet fired that tore through his lace.

On the ground, he knew his blood flowed,

As he looked up at the man he’d grown to loathe,

Expecting a gloating face to be shown,

He saw instead a hand lifting him slow,

With a voice that captured all ages while whispery low,

Frost laid Gilead a stunning blow,

With words that he knew held no ploy,

“There’s much to be said, things you should know.”

Outside of town, such as it was,

Gilead favored his arm that stopped squirting blood,

“The times have changed, much I have forgot,

You think I’m the man you seek, let me prove I’m not,

For even though I held the gun that fired the fatal shot,

It was the need of another that makes your blood run hot.

As the night covered everything but their fire,

Frost and Gilead talked for hours,

One about the loss of a Father and lover,

The other about a son lost because of another.

March 15, 2008

@Bradley S. Hartman

www.bradleyshartman.com