Dust swirls around the men, manoeuvring around their figures,
Pointing the pistols at each other, their fingers on the triggers.
Tensed stances, eyes narrowed, their boots slightly apart,
No one takes any notice of the casual, loud passing cart.
One fixes his hat, the other slightly changes his stance,
So fixed upon each other, they seem almost in a trance.
The hats cast shadows on the dark circles under their eyes,
The dark circles change their faces, almost like a disguise.
The stale stench of alcohol on their disgusting breath,
They are drunk and now the punishment is death.
They pull their triggers which is followed by a deafening blast,
Now, they are both just another thing of the past.
