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I've found it in the barrel Of the bandit's nervous gun; I've seen it reach from swirling seas, Or block the roads I run. 'Been more than once I've witnessed, As I was made to feel That death was more than likely, A moment so surreal; When time stood independent; Far removed from metered pace. A moment out of context Thrusted forward toward my face. As the focus of all instinct Of my spirit, of my flesh, Was centered on this object Causing faith and fear to mesh. My disbelief was not enough To loosen terror's grip; As fear then fueled the hopeful heart, Death managed but to clip. By desperate reaction, By luck, or by the Gods, I dodged the present danger And somehow beat the odds. The moment slipped behind me; I raised my eyes to see My future still approaching With things I hoped would be. Such moments carve a memory, Like a whittler with a knife; The grooves that come from facing death Raise up the joys of life.
Wes Stephenson

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