In Front of the Zebedee Saloon, at 6:35 AM

Sun, 11/17/2019 - 19:11 -- Motala

Silver sheets pour from the gutter,

Changing all to brown and blue.

Yet one person sits alone, unmoving,

Stringy grey hair obscuring her view.


Rain in rivulets runs off her face,

Tears fall too, she knows not why.

Thinks for just a weary moment,

The world now waits for her to die.


Long has been her time in passing,

And her long pursuit to what avail?

Yet in the end, she had succeeded,

‘Tis not for her the wind does wail.


Thirty Years, she did track the man,

As he wandered the wild, far and near

Late last night she finally caught him,

Cheating at cards and drinking beer.


She spoke his name, he glanced up startled,

His view the barrel of her loaded gun,

The same one she’d carried since beginning,

The gun with which he had shot her son.


So ends his story, shot at his cards.

No reason for her to linger in town,

Yet still she stayed in seated silence,

Watching as this rain pours down.

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