I just heard the bang, and in minutes, it tumbled dead.
It flipped-flopped rocks over dust. Head first, then toes.
It rolled down to a deep gorge; to its tomb. . .

For years, we galloped canyons over canyons
with my horse of thoughts.
My imagination was the sheriff, and I was the cowgirl.

We dashed into a sunset, and there, at the edge of a cliff,
he said:

“Atta boy!” ( Phew! My horse of thoughts had stopped)

But from there, mounted upon my horse,
we gazed into the ravine. Quietly.
Losing ourselves into the eyes of the canyon;
into the rivers of sorrow that with the passing of years
had evaporated into a couple of tears.
And then, as the night fell upon our shoulders,
I held tighter to him; to his waist; to his scent. I felt safe.
Safe to dream. Safe to imagine him forever with me.

He was like the saddle in my horse,
he was like the stem in a rose,
he was like the rifle in his sturdy hand,
he was like the hat in my head.
He was who inspired this verse
He was …

who also inspired this prose.

And as the sun rose, my horse of thoughts, trotted back home.
To the reality of the world. Where my sheriff, was no more.
Where I was not a cowgirl. Where my thoughts were no longer
a horse but a bandit that shot my imagination into the unknown.


  • And I, upon waking up:

I just heard the bang, and in minutes, it tumbled dead.
It flipped-flopped rocks over dust. Head first, then toes.
It rolled down to a deep gorge; to its tomb…

 

Written Dec 1, 2014

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