Gunslinger

They say she smells of gunpowder,

The only remainder of countless bullets

crafted of shooting stars.

Rounds of hope fired desperately

at the crescent moon

praying her only wish will come true

once they touch the ground again.

Poor trigger happy girl,

burying herself beneath the shells

of hollow dreams.

Her rebel soul never quivered

When a stranger came to town.

But still, it never mattered

how many outlaws

she dusted at high noon.

Or how brightly the golden stars

Blazed inside her:

No one can survive a shot through the heart.

Not even The Gun Slinger,

Who could light up the night sky

With the ashes of fairy tales.