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Sunday, March 15, 2015

Silent Rider

His heart bleeds the poison of mournful regrets.  In his path taken souls follow haunting each step down the road of life.  He, the silent rider, speaking with whispers and shouting with six shooting guns.  He whips them from his holsters leaving them as empty as his heart.  Now the sun rises and falls on condemned men set to die each count breaking the hearts to the music of women's cry.  Just before dawn the winds shudder before his breath, escaping the path of his ghostly inhale lives blown into smoke as he exhales.  He his own crematorium. As he rides away the moon howls at the darkness as though he's a wilted rose stripped of it's beauty  leaving thorns to barefoot.  All that remains is the sad look of death wrapped up in a lingering smile.  His hollow boots plod forward forever walking the earth looking for those deserving of the grave.  To all those who have known his treachery, as a dog lives as a dog dies.

Does this need a more poetic language.  It's a poem that tells a story, I will look to revise this but for now I am confused.

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