Mean Streaks and Misgivings
by Michael Doyle

When the Colt has turned to rust
And all that's left is to swallow the dust
The desert plays tricks on a man's mind
As he looks over his shoulder at what's left behind

War is war and won't become something more
However deep it is that whiskey pours
The body might last longer than the soul endures
But there is nothing that provides the cure

Maybe there is no cure for the things done
Sure as blindness comes from staring at the sun
The tricks of the mind are less than those of the heart
From which we might not catch up from the start

There's not much a mind would as soon forget
As those things done that bring us our regrets
We eke away, steady in our persistence
Knowing that a soul's rot binds its resistance

To ever settling or amending our ways
Sometimes, it's the mean streak that eases the days
The wounds that we keep, hold, and live to carry
Are only part of the price for those that we bury

The largest labyrinth consists of a mental maze
It costs us the best of our only living days
An eye for an eye only leaves us wounded and blind
I pray that there is more truth than this to find

It turns out the best revenge is that never taken
Those times lived through leaves the gun hand shaken
Until a truce is made with memories of the past
And we find ourselves ripped free at last

(c) March 26, 2024  Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved