Lost Desert Moon

The saloon never closed. Its wooden doors made no choices, it's dust covered clothes. The men and their horses or pistols or cards had a knack for trouble far from mama's arms. Whiskey in their bellies and gold flakes for lunch, their smiles were toothless and their boots killed like guns. The must filled their noses, the never filled their souls, a hangout for prisoners of a place down the road. Riding or sitting they'll never get caught, the lawman who seeks them has already been shot. Left to each others' brass knuckles and arms, with only dreams of lovers to keep the place warm. Time passes... oasis evaporates... riders follow the wind blowing out the gates. Faded wood, echoes, and cobwebs, no patrons no poker no angels or gods. Lone coyote breaks silence in the empty parlor. A room in history, that dusty saloon, may it live on forever lost desert moon.