The Unsung Hero

The unsung hero sits by the darkness of the kitchen table. Smoke wafts from his lips reminiscent of a midnight ritual in some godforsaken place. He watches the night and lingers to hear its calling and its desires. He understands its retribution. It is a song meant to be heard by those unfortunate souls who have yet to cross the edge. The ones which have sat at that same table and have contemplated many things. Thoughts remain adrift and sudden movements dance gracefully as if guided by an unseen puppeteer of rare and exotic talent.

The night in all its simplicity provides him with uncanny fortitude of spirit and cunning. His palms heavy with stains from years of turmoil. His eyelids paint the picture of a man physically broken. A man whose gun rusts away, coated with the salt of vitriol and wasted years. It has been his companion through episodes of melancholy and trepidation. Everyone else is no longer here. The table creaks with solemn sighs of weathered storms. It is his foundation, however brittle it may be.

Moonlight's glow bathes the barrel of his gun in a silvery streak. He holds his head in his hands, his hair long and disheveled. The look of a man that has witnessed loneliness for far too long. He longs to ease the pain but must remain keen and cunning. He must breathe and remove himself from that caricature that sits by the darkness of the table. Relentless must be his pursuit of air. His tears like molten silver etch themselves on a visage long eroded.

In some far-away land, his song plays in old villages and older spaces. The unsung hero rides again in silvery light. The table no longer creaks. The rust and heaviness washed away by the rivers of overflowing dreams. Those wasted years so familiar are like a knife penetrating his side. He rides beneath moonlight's glow. The unseen puppeteer moves about like a wraith. Tales of woe and lamentation are carried off by winds of storm. The unsung hero is once again keen and cunning.