A man strolled in at sundown Dust climbing slow around his boots, Black case hanging from one hand, The other itching to caress the strings. He brought no sermon, no smile, Just the look of someone Who had buried towns before. He took the corner by the whiskey barrels, Pulled the guitar free — cedar wood, dark stain, Scratches marred the surface, From years of keeping rhythm. From the first flourish, All conversation silenced, In just a few measures, The song took shape. And the room leaned in. Dance now — Boot heel, bottle glass, belt knife, broken teeth, Dust rising in the lantern light like breath from a grave. Dance now — Before the strings go silent, Before the heart kicks hollow in the chest. Round and round they turned Till the floorboards learned their names. The clock lost time in pieces. Two minutes here. Ten there. Nobody noticed at first. Why would they? The music carried its own weather. Hands clapped cross-rhythms against the tables, Women laughing with split lips, Men stomping hard enough to numb the knees. The guitarist sat dead still except his hands — Those moved like a nest of snakes in firelight. Every song took something. A little color from the skin. A little water from the blood. The baker collapsed smiling. The sheriff coughed black into his sleeve. A girl danced until both feet bled through her stockings And never once asked the band to stop. Still the room leaned in. Dance now — Palms cracking red against the rhythm, Spines bending backward under the weight of the sound. Dance now — The old man by the doorway Dropped dead three songs ago. Nobody noticed. Nobody could. [Instrumental Solo: Dry flamenco guitar begins alone: rasgueado bursts, uneven accents, breathing room between phrases. Palmas enter in shifting cycles. Progressive metal drums emerge underneath in asymmetrical tom patterns and low tribal kick pulses. Bass drone builds slowly into distorted polymetric riffing. Flamenco lead phrases mutate into sustained dissonant electric guitar bends. Rhythms overlap and accelerate without full resolution before abruptly collapsing back into acoustic strings and foot stomps.] Winter came early after that. The cattle thinned out. Water tasted wrong. Dogs stopped barking at night. Still the dance hall filled itself at sundown. Folks dragged themselves through the doors With shaking legs, gray faces, loose teeth, Eyes sunk deep as old coins in dry wells. The guitarist never looked hungry. That was the worst part. He always looked patient. Then one night The music stopped. Chair empty. Glass half full. Front door swinging in the cold wind. But out in the town square The dancers kept moving. Skin dried tight over bone. Finger joints clicking like castanets. Jawbones hanging loose while dead feet Dragged circles into the dirt. No guitar left. No musician. Only the memory of rhythm Wormed down deep into the spine. Dance now — Moonlight whitening empty eye sockets, Dust blowing soft through hollow ribs. Dance now — The strings are silent, The man has gone, The town lies still. Still they turn. Still their heels keep time To a ghostly melody Nobody hears Except the dead.
