Pact of the Cannon
A deal made with a devil in the old west
Avoid the path when the sun is low
When light is choked by dust
Else you'll meet a fiendish man
Face full of dark disgust
"The time has come to face your fate,"
His strong voice anchored me
His gun in hand, both eyes aglow
My feet forgot to flee.
The stranger's presence filled my mind
He stood there grim and tall
An absence rang out from that man
The Reaper's silent call
"Fuck you!" I shouted as I drew
In a flash of fiery sun
"I bet my life I'll stop your shot
With mine, from this here gun!"
"And if you fail, then it's your soul"
He responded, entertained
A mighty roar, a whiff of smoke
The fiendish face turned to pain
With a spark of light the bullets struck
Beneath that red sky
His dark intentions were sent back
Straight through his right eye
He vanished there, except his gun
The devil turned to dust
His voice called out from no true source,
A whisper stained with lust...
"Feed me the fallen souls of those
Who do not know their place
Feed me those souls and you will live."
That was my saving grace.
About the Creator
Dartwan
We're all on a journey of somekind
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart3 days ago in Fiction
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