The Duel (Andrew Jackson)

The air hung thick with powder’s breath,  

a duel’s dawn cracking the calm veil.  

Andrew stood, a map of fire in veins,  

his body leaning into earth’s defiance.  

The shot landed—marked him as mortal,  

skin yielding its bloom of crimson proof.  

But still, he rose as if stitched by pride,  

a man unwilling to fall before fate.  

The crowd bore witness with breathless awe,  

its echo ricocheting through the haunted fields.  

He raised the pistol, steady as history,  

his hands trembling, though never his will.  

A second crack sliced the air in two,  

the sound burying itself in Dickinson’s chest.  

A gasp. A stagger. A life undone—  

dollars of pain exchanged at dawn’s altar.  

Some called it grit; others whispered madness,  

but both wore the weight of something more.  

The moment stretched into raw eternity,  

where death traded handshakes with resolve.  

Blood soaked the dirt like ink on parchment,  

staining the pages of some still-unwritten tale.