My mind is a sterile ghost town
in these vacant Wild West plains,
with hollow gold-plucked mines
and infertile plantations,
seeking words as if water
to fill my dehydrated verse
Metaphors and similes
lay dead like bison hulls;
dried up black blood-littered
reminders of free-flowing
perfectly placed phrases,
lost in this parched, tasteless earth
Cactus traps the tumbleweed
that roll across like memories
of dilapidated stagecoaches
and broken-down saloons
where art is put to rest
in wooden cross-marked graves
My prose stands ‘neath the noon sun
(a showdown in this made-up town)
my rival, cool and grizzled
draws and fires into my heart
sparing me of a pointless death;
my blood shall fill this page! |