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I begin,
here –
as I lie awake in bed,
although – topic aside,
off subject in head
I return to the Westerns of old
in youth,
to ponder instead –
of who was better
Wayne, Eastwood or Newman.
Men who depict
character, shades and hue, and
what could become of man
if we keep our feet –
stand and fight until the end.

I continue,
there –
as I lie awake, again
enamored by the strong feminine
which I cannot recall a single face.

What does that say of me?
Devoid of depth and character –
refine a sense of distillation
from me, my words and reflect
a man focused on more
beyond borders of sense
yet delve into intellect.

One placed between
gluttony and greed –
kidnapped by Comanche
my selfish need
ego laced with one thought –
me.

I finish,
where –
as I lie to myself, again
enslaved to procrastination's
solemn lack of ambition.
I can hear Ethan Edwards anguish
“don’t ever ask me more"
as I lie awake, yearning –
yearning for someone to implore
ask of possibility
demand faith be restored
in the brave and bold.

The Searchers,
define –
as I grow weary, on this, the third night.
There is more monster inside
cold steel, scalp in hand –
a decade gone
marred from misanthropy
fighting to be better at the end.

My thoughts walk off,
I dream –
am I shadow or man?