Para/Poem Challenge "Open"

Justice

He was sanguine,
As if he’d been in the sun far too long.
Materializing out of the shimmer of the hot gases rising from the dry desert sand,
A strange sort of fellow with a six-gun,
That could truly be called a hawg leg.
Tall and thin as a rail,
Emaciated by the heat and long travel,
He had come a long way to sacrifice.
Though his was not a standard sacrifice,
It might be called slipshod.
He was not even sure of the purpose,
Yet someone must die.
For simultaneous to the desire for sacrifice,
He was saturated with an urge for revenge.
Some low-down, good for nothing weasel had done him wrong,
And he’d traveled a far piece with the exhilaration of revenge,
That pushed him onward like a cruel taskmaster.
That spring morning he settled down in a chair to watch the street,
And decide how to rectify the injustice.
And whom it would be meted to,
For he was not particular who would pay the price.
Then amid the serenity of the moment he drifted off to sleep;
And soon a stout drunk, in deep sorrow over breaking his half full bottle of liquor,
Mistook him for a dog who’d occupied his chair.
And shot him dead!

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Crockpot Creativity

It’s time to come away
To think on deeper things
To enjoy a slower life
And examine dreams
To sit under the tree
And sift through sands
For the book of creativity
Opens not to quick hands

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