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Arrogant glory of the outlaw;

His flaked old truck still.

Leaning on it, a straw he chewed upon.

The gun is no use, no bullets anyways.

It’s a different battle to fight.

 

Its no war either, just memories;

And the not to be undone; his life,

He stares back at the innocence of a childhood.

Secure in its mothers lap under its father’s roof.

 

He drops his glance squeezing  away his teardrop.

The child does not, accusing him of something.

Accusing him of knowing too much,

Of demolishing its Gods of flesh.

 

It’s not a war, the gun is no use now.

The outlaw knows there is no fighting one’s childhood.

There can be running away; only so long.

He is tired anyways, accepts to be tried by his childhood.

 

The outlaw for once and at last is confined.

Questioned not with questions but memories.

Revenge, he had sought once for the death of his dreams.

Memory prosecutes and executes him of it’s immortality.Image

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