A poem by J.W.

Main Street in a Spaghetti Western
Facades, store fronts only,
Props and propped up, mere ideas
Thoughts of a reality that was not

My life was this street
A facade, a living prop, where
Alcohol propped me up
In the reality that was not

So as the real world crept in
Bottoms up, the props fell
One domino after another
Main Street laid bare, empty, alone

Where to turn
Everywhere, yet nowhere
Or so it seemed until
From somewhere came a voice

Just be willing, it whispered
I will be your prop now
If you will let me,
it entreated
“I’ll try anything,” my thought in reply

On Main Street. High Noon
Face to face with a killer
No longer an escape behind the facades
No place to run, just him and me.

If I draw one this day,
I will die, this is certain.
But armed like never before,
This duel I win—today.

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