Sands

Tossing his head, a black lock of hair falling out of his eyes
Pits of dark morose
Flying with the crash of silver
bullets seeping into the flesh
As they twist and dance, alone and forgotten.
The stench of blood is rising, crimson on the pale surface
Digging into the dirt and dust
Silent figures, ominous in their graceless frenzy.
A lump in the throat,
like something waiting to crumble
He watches and waits, calculating
And an eruption, harping on the ears
Enervation, decapitation
A small figure
In the empty desert.