Perhaps it was the roaring voices inside his head,
or the beating rhythm of an unsteady heart
that truly suited the canvas of black.
And there she stood, a mocking light,
uninvited in the town of lone.
A bright gold in all her glory.
As the bullets seared through her heart,
Flesh intact, as it crashed into the soul,
Wounds that could never be healed
Were made that faithful night.
A teardrop on porcelain skin,
And hair as dark as the midnight sky.
Blocking her once twinkling eyes,
Were a sight that faithful night.
And still he stood in the darkened dusk;
Watching her fall
Down, down in spiraling turns.
Until they met across that lonesome road
Where their dark shadows loomed,
Spinning, concocting into one.
