The Stand Off

It's high noon

Air fills with anticipation

And the sweat of impending doom

Time blooms suspense

Two parties stand

At two different poles

Repelling each other

Power struggles

Creating awkward tension

Its stench

Dominating other senses

Arms awaiting to be drawn

Itchy fingers

Eager to taste flesh

And bullets ready to spill blood

Battle lines drawn in the sand

Hearts beat erratically

Hand receptors itching for orders

Brain remains dead still

Ever calculating scenarios

Exploring vantage points to exploit