And Hell Followed

The porch is warped by desert sun,
a splintered, grey, and lonely stage.
The girl’s long task is nearly done,
upon the Bible's final page.

She traces out the holy ink,
with fingers gloved in linen white.
Before the sun begins to sink,
to let the rising dark take flight.

"And I beheld a horse of pale,"
she reads with voice of silver bell.
While wicked deeds and spirits frail,
have opened wide the gates of Hell.

"And he who sat on him was Death,"
the holy word meets dusty air.
For as she draws a heavy breath,
a rider haunts the desert glare.

"And Hell followed," she softly sighs,
the heavy book begins to fall.
As Ancient black, and sunken eyes,
sat in the leather saddle tall.

The mother drops her porcelain cup,
the shards scattered like the frost.
She dares not look the rider up,
or count the bitter, final cost.

No breath disturbs the desert heat,
no heartbeat thumps within his chest.
Just silver spurs and rotted feet,
upon a long and vengeful quest.

The silver in his holster gleams,
like moonlight on a sudden blade.
To haunt the guilty in their dreams,
for every debt they haven't paid.

He draws a breath of sulphur smoke,
through lungs of grey and rotted lace.
He calls the guilty of the folk,
to look upon his soulless face.

The first man stumbles to the street,
with trembling knees and sweating brow.
To grovel at the stallion's feet,
and offer up a shallow vow.

"We only did what must be done,"
he whines against the desert heat.
"The rope was tied by everyone,
to make your sudden end complete."

The rider does not speak or flinch,
but draws his heavy, silver gun—
The same that saw the winter lynch,
before the hanging work was done.

A thunder-clap of sudden lead,
to split the coward’s chest in two.
A spray of hot and blooming red,
to soak the dust in crimson dew.

The mother shields her daughter's sight,
but still the girl can hear the thud.
As pieces of the evening light,
are swallowed by the rising blood.

The rider cocks the hammer back,
the metal clicking sharp and dry.
To leave another crimson track,
beneath a wide, uncaring sky.

The others scramble for their steel,
with shaking hands and frantic cries.
Too late to break the iron seal,
reflected in his burning eyes.

They duck behind the watering trough,
or crouch beneath the tavern’s shade.
But no one’s heart is brave enough,
to face the monster they have made.

A second hammer falls like stone,
a flash of sulphur, hot and bright.
To splinter through a shoulder bone,
and bring the onset of the night.

He fans the hammer, fast and cold,
to send a hail of antique lead.
For every lie that they have told,
and every drop of blood they shed.

The marshal staggers to the dirt,
his jaw a ruin, wet and red.
A jagged, raw and blooming hurt,
to join the ranks of all the dead.

A skull is shattered like a glass,
a brain is splattered on the pine.
As bodies like a funeral mass,
begin to form a jagged line.

The rider doesn't blink or flinch,
as viscera like salt-spray fly.
To avenge the cold and winter lynch,
beneath the wide, uncaring sky.

The final man begins to crawl,
across the gore and splintered wood.
To press against the tavern wall,
where still the hanging tree stood.

"I have a wife, I have a son!"
He blubbers through a mask of red.
But still the rider’s silver gun,
is pointed at his guilty head.

"The rope was long, the knot was tight,"
the rider’s voice is dry as bone.
"And no one spoke for me that night,
when I was hanging all alone."

A thunder-clap, a sudden crack,
a leaden hole between the eyes.
To blow the coward’s memory back,
beneath the cold and desert skies.

The mother holds her daughter's head,
but still the girl can hear the thud.
As every man who wished him dead,
is cooling in the desert mud.

He doesn't look at where they lie,
to reap the bitter crop they sowed.
Beneath the wide, uncaring sky,
the final debt that must be owed.

The beast is turned with rotted rein,
its hooves are silent in the gore.
To leave a dark and curdled stain,
across the street and tavern door.

The girl still holds the sacred book,
with trembling hands and bated breath.
To give the rider a final look,
the pale and ruthless face of Death.

A shimmer in the moonlight glare,
a trick of light and desert sand.
He melts into the sulphur air,
and vanishes across the land.

The gallows tree is bleached and white,
a skeleton of silvered pine.
Where no one ventures in the night,
or crosses past the border line.

The towns old street is dark and stained,
a memory of curdled red.
Where only lonely winds remained,
to whisper of the restless dead.

She tells the tale to those who stay,
of scripture and of iron breath,
of how the sunlight turned to grey.
To herald in the rider........Death.