Poetry Winner

The Quick Kill
They stood back to back waiting.
Will one of them die?
They stood back to back thinking
The bullets will fly.
Ten paces until they shoot
Then it will be done.
The good, and the bad with loot,
Dueling under the sun.
They start to walk their paces,
Slowly at the start.
The sweat drips down their faces
As they walk apart.
When they reach ten they turn fast,
And look eye to eye.
They raise, fire I see the blast
I watch as both die.

TJ Wilkinson
© 1996