Words of Acadiana

 (The sinner) stealing hearts like the Western wind snatches hats. He drifted in and out of these ghost towns with almost no effort. No recognition of emotion. No humanity. Just a masked man cloaked in mystery. The outcome, always the same. Another dead body. A few extra bucks. And a few shots of whiskey to drown out the pain. 

 As he rode into town on that high holy day, a poster displayed the bounty he was after. A grifter. Drifting. A killer of criminals camouflaged as one. A rogue individual. Masked. Living a lonely life. Just a horse and a gun. His only purpose is to kill or be killed. But was it really killing him? This killing game. Town to town roaming. Gambling for pennies and fame. Claiming lives as his slowly slips away. 

 These thoughts roll by like clouds on a West Texas day. Driven by heat and sunshine. Lazy. Hazy. Turquoise skies. Cotton candy clouds. Like dreams. Clinging to the ether. The float on by. But I’m weighted down by my burden. My fate has become the murderer of peaceful days like this. When I’m done, you’re just a bleeding sack of skin and bone. Dreams extinguished. 

 His eyes hold mysteries. Centuries of hurt. Disguised by desire to extinguish anything posing the threat of exposing his humanity. A bandit who hides in shadows. Throwing his thoughts to the wind. Maybe he’d rather drink with you. But he can’t. So he aims for your head. His target. One shot. You’re dead. A haunt full of empty air like a conch shell on a fence post. 

 Are your eyes full of stars? Or are those tears? Are you a killer by choice or were you made this way? Did they coerce you into living this bandit existence, lurking in the shadows? Crouched waiting for your next target? Do you want out? Is there a smile beneath the mask? Dreaming of an easier life? On a beach somewhere far from this dusty hell. Is it so out of reach? Can’t you feel the wind in your hair? Blowing you towards a dream instead of blowing them all away? Aren’t you just a bandit dreaming of a way out? Or is that just my imagination? 

 The burden of the masked man living out a destiny that he’s never really felt in control of. Ending lives without really living his. An undoing of lives. Will it always be this way? Can a bandit be reborn? Reformed? Must he always conceal his joy behind a dusty old bandana? Is his true language a gun? Could the bullet holes he leaves behind tell a story of a life yet unlived? Unwritten. 

 Kicking up dust and trouble. Scraping off his boot. The gunk of the last one sticking to it like sin. Longing for redemption as he sips his whiskey. Hell bent on leaving his mark on this unsuspecting town. Then, like a devil wind, he blows out. Leaving a trail of destruction. A life ended. Last thing the poor sucker saw was the barrel of his gun. Now he’s in hell wishing for heaven. The only thing left of his lonely life is stuck to the bottom of a heartless bastard’s boot. Aren’t we all just wiped away by time?