I'm a killer.
a western shooter.
my triggers
mark your
final punctuation,
and six shots
are your
final sentence.
a lifetime taken
to justice.
gunpowder
is your kind of
a last meal.

looks can be decieving,
and logic can be revealing.

there's a
monster that they make of me,
but they're in the dim light
in casks of shadows.

read my poems upon death
and that's where I'll be.
searching for light
through
sanctifiying flames.
and just when I'm going,
I'll be guided by my mother's
merciful grace.

the wound the wound,
yes, the wound.
it is still there
for it has not
yet healed to
a scar.

In May, may we ?
Don't say nothing- no,
don't say no.
Do you know you are the one that I
would write for ? So there
in May, may I ? So I may have every of my page have your name ?
For I feel this consent,
yes- I do. so please, don't say no-
for then I may not,
even when I can;
and maybe even
when we should.