The Man from Lubbock rode into town,
straddling a horse that was chestnut brown.
His eyes were dark, hard and stern,
when angry, the brown embers burned.
His temper flashed like bullet out of a gun,
for he carried a pain that could not be undone.
The mark upon his face said to be the mark of Cain,
though from a knife meant for him to be slain.
The scar ran down the side of his face,
the trail of the knife you could easily trace.
Just above the brow, barely missing the eye,
down the cheek, hitting the jaw bone, it was just shy.
The scar a reminder of friends who did him wrong,
he vowed to hunt them down, to send them to where they belonged.
One by one, he found them and put them in the ground,
and in this town, the last one would be found.
The last one standing, the end of the road,
if he felt any mercy, it never showed.
Finger on the trigger and an anger hardened heart,
it had been a ruthless mission right from the start.
He squeezed the trigger and the man fell,
if it had finally eased his pain, no one could tell.
He slid the pistol into its holster, took one last look,
showing no remorse for the life he took.
He mounted the chestnut, gave a quick pull of the reins,
the scar on his face, the only evidence that remains,
of a friendship betrayed and a man left for dead,
of a relentless search and a bullet in the head.
A wrong paid by a wrong,
and a memory that will forever be prolonged.
The Man from Lubbock rode out of town,
with blood on his hands and his hat pulled down,
to cover the dark eyes that still carried pain,
and the scar on his face, looked upon with disdain.
~Liz Austin 2018
Born and raised in Upstate NY, Liz is a freelance writer. She has written for websites, blogs, and magazines for the last 10 years. She also acts as a proofreader and beta reader for several authors, all the while working on her first book.