Gunslinger:

They say she smells like gunpowder,

Permanently stained from
countless bullets

crafted from shooting stars.

Rounds of hope
fired desperately

at the crescent moon.
Poor trigger happy girl,

burying herself beneath the shells 

of hollow dreams.

Her rebel soul never quivered

When a stranger came to town.

But still, it never mattered

how many outlaws 

she dusted at high noon.

Or how brightly the golden stars

Blazed inside her:

No one can survive a shot through the heart.

Not even The Gun Slinger,

Who could light up the night sky

With the ashes of fairy tales.