Back in tharm days, knobstirrups had it, they flocked rocks
out on the plains. The way I unnerheard it, twas 'setchy swore
uppin downy ken, thin reavers of the road ripped 'em.
Plain shavings left to crumble with the passage of wheels
in times to come. Red demon Sun inflamed and chasing us
ever one down the long stretched out shadows of the soul.
So long as the whole planet keeps rolling, we gone stay on
the ball, on the dark wrapped up path hidden behind sleep.
Our lurking black projections sliding tall and winding up amid
a darker ball of memories to disappear into a crowd of stars.
The cool morning breeze blows in the scent of licorice
and lemon trees as a camp fire crackles from dusk until
dawn its red embers rendered faint echoes of old whispers
between the stars. A western poem's sidled up and hitched
to the only post. From here on out we can't be going far.