His shadowy brim tipped down and in
No face to place, no trace of chin
Revolver cradled loose and low
Cylinder whirs, chambers roll

Trench coat long, dark, and lean
Black boots gleam with choicest sheen
Right hand rested 'round bony grips
Left hand fans and never slips

Who are you?
What do you want from me?
Why are you here?

Your purpose is hidden
Your message unclear

Never a word muttered
Not even a sound
It's always the same
When you come around

Got to find my keys
Get out of this place
I'm weak in the knees
My heart's losing pace

Jump in the car
Pedal meets metal
Check my rear-view
For signs of that devil

At the stoplight
A peripheral glance
A sideways glint
A figure askance

Shotgun rider
A figment with a plan
The devil may care
But my mind made the man

©Jason Cole

How is it that
I feel this connection
With such
Intensity and rarity
Penetrating
My bones
Consuming
My soul
As if
Our souls are tangled
Together repeatedly
without knowing
One lifetime
After another
A magnetic force
That pulls me to you
I want to give in
And
Snap into place

How many poems have we written,
How many more will we write?
How many matches have we stricken,
How many more will we strike?

How many candles have we burned
In search of knowledge and wisdom?
How much in total have we learned
Do accused poets deserve freedom?

How many words have we really used
How many letters have we composed
How many plagiarists have been sued
How many of us have been accused

From other poets and other writers,
How many lines have we ever stolen?
Why are poets such horrible liars,
When last was this secret rule broken?

©IvanBrooksPoetry
15/10/2018