Even with the sun at its peak,
His blood ran cold.
Limping along the creek,
His stride not quite controlled.
Fingers wrapped around his gun,
Five of six chambers vacant.
Maybe he could no longer run,
But he knew how to be patient.
Across the way a welcoming tree,
A perfect place to rest.
The town behind and almost free,
A lay down for a bit might be best.
Against the wood he slumped hard,
A jolt of pain brought out a grunt.
Still he wouldn't let down his guard,
Not while they were on the hunt.
Maybe he'd close his eyes,
A moment he could afford.
Perhaps this seemed unwise,
He'd be someone's reward.
His firearm dropped to his lap,
With a bullet he'd never use.
Slowly he slid off his hat,
Never thought this is how he'd lose.
About the Creator
Jean-François Lamothe
I started writing when I was 14 years old, but never took it seriously, sometimes going years without writing anything meaningful. I've recently started to write more consistently, and decided to share my stories.
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