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