Barry Reese – Writer of Badass heroes

I hear the church bells ringing through a sky the color of old bruises,
Their iron voices rolling over graveyards where the wind worries at the bones,
And somewhere beyond the crooked fence line the undertaker is saddling up,
His wagon wheels cutting tracks through dust that has forgotten every name.

He’s coming for me.

I know it by the way the shadows gather at sundown,
By the way the prairie grass bows its head like mourners beside an open grave,
By the way the dead seem restless beneath the dirt,
As though they have heard the summons and are turning in their coffins.

Behind him rides a host of shades.

Not strangers, not outlaws, not forgotten kings.

My shades.

Every failure I ever buried shallow.
Every regret I thought the years had weathered smooth.
Every ghost I’ve dragged behind me from one hard season to the next.
They come armed to the teeth with memory and accusation,
Their revolvers loaded with old words,
Their rifles sighted on wounds that never truly healed.

I recognize them all.

There rides the man I might have been.
There limps the boy who learned too early that mercy was expensive.
There walks every friend I’ve disappointed, every promise left broken in the dust,
A ragged army crossing the badlands of my heart beneath a moon pale as a skull.

And what have I to meet them with?

No fortress.

No crown.

No empire.

Only this kingdom of dirt.

A few acres of hard ground scratched from suffering.
A fence built from stubbornness and scar tissue.
A house held together by grit, prayer, and habit.
The last patch of earth the years have failed to steal.

So I stand upon it.

The wind scatters dust around my boots.
The church bells continue their slow funeral song.
Coyotes cry from the distant hills like prophets of the inevitable.
Above me the stars gleam cold and ancient,
The silver buttons on God’s black coat.

The undertaker draws near.

I can see the pale faces riding behind him now.
I can hear the rattle of bones beneath their skin.
I can smell the graveyard earth clinging to them like perfume.

Yet I do not run.

Let them come.

Let every ghost I’ve ever made ride out of the darkness.
Let every failure rise from its grave with murder in its eyes.
Let the undertaker call my name from beneath his broad black hat.

Because this dirt is mine.

This sorrow is mine.

These scars are mine.

I paid for every inch of this lonely kingdom with blood and years.

And when the bells finally fall silent,
When the shades surround me and the last dust settles over the world,
They will find me standing atop my ruined throne of earth and bone,
Defending what little remains with empty hands and bared teeth,

A dying king in a kingdom of dirt.

copyright 2026 Barry Reese