The Moth and the Candle

He was found more dead than alive
But one was there to live and to thrive
One evening of American redness setting in the West
Where new myths are born and put to the test
Settler scree and Indian detritus litter the landscape
Ragged heroes kill for pleasure and to escape
Lawmen run rackets, beat suspects to death in custody
Marshals ride roughshod, to tell the future as it is meant to be
Soft songs drift in the night air and call forth
Non-existent gods and goddesses to prove their worth
What we see are men and women only, without glory
Tangential components of someone else’s Stygian story

Bandidos string bandoliers at the ready
Palms on gun handles to keep their nerves steady
Waiting for a train or a stage to arrive
Sweat strewn, dust caked, more dead than alive
In a black coat and tall hat, he rides abroad
That last judge in whose saddlebags souls are stored
He points a bony finger and the gaucho must follow
Whose body falls to earth for it has now become hollow
Tracked across dust and sand, we are hunted down
In a short time we will all meet Hell’s hounds

But one figure may not end his time there
His eyes see further than ours in a clear stare
Past the pettiness and cruelty to something other
To a potential in this land to do more than smother
He walks alone within groups, familiar stranger
But known to very few, the last lone ranger.

A pluralistic Robin Hood who stole the rich’s wealth
By default he gives to the poor, stolen by stealth
But run down he shall be when the landscape collapses
No silver or gold will force blind eyes or lapses
And he will dangle at the end of a hempen line
To a violent end he will come, the West’s only true sign

Sing songs now of a man more dead than alive
Whose echoes are still heard across the dusty drive
Hold memories in your head of one who rose above
The mundanity of the ordinary to be held in almost love
A dangerous man who gave no quarter for none to be had
Death-drawn, spiteful violence but secretly he was sad
Shot and badly wounded, he was disregardedly dragged back
To be hung up in a town square in the last of his tracks

Goodbye then, foul hero, God and the Devil speed your exit
Riding to oblivion on a black mare but you don’t dread it
Home is to where you ride, to claim your crown
The peace you never had in the act of falling down
Hail to thee and gra’mercy
For the stories we hear, we feel and we see