Sarah

This story is entirely fiction. Any resemblance to people alive or dead is purely coincidental.

Who does not like a good poem from the Wild West built on vengeance and mystery? I would like to think this piece of art is more important than a love story, or a fictional tale that offers a slice of dopamine for finishing. Every person, regardless of gender, has the right to take their story in their own hands. To right the wrongs of their past: that is what this is about. Life is not as black and white as we convince ourselves.

Sarah

This is a tale told as oft’ as any, a story of love:

Two hearts sworn to forever and the destruction they wrought.

Johnny was barely a man, had never fired a pistol:

Sarah was just a woman, her whole future ahead.

They met at Arnold’s General Store—

Love at first sight, as they say.

Many nights they spent exploring the outskirts of town,

Learning all they could of each other.

One morning, an outlaw rode into town—

With a gun belt notched, twenty-nine.

His eye fell upon Sarah, and he determined to have her.

But Johnny stood in the street, pistol in hand—

Notch thirty on the outlaw’s gun belt.

Some say Sarah went mad,

Burned the town and shot herself.

Swore her ghost acted in a lust for blood.

In my last day, I am here to say:

When a tin star and her brothers turned their back,

She took justice in her own hand:

Bringing death to all the cowards who dared not stand.

She painted the town with lead:

She was not crazy:

The outlaw fell in his bed, a .45 to his head:

She was vengeance.

She rode from the town in flames,

Never to look back.

—EJB