Rodeo

Because when I look at them, I know what I need to do. It’s a mechanical act. No thinking involved just action. The syntax I apply down to an engineered art; the art of a cruel hunt. Killing me softly, slipping through the stirrups with an arrow to their drive. Confusion and misunderstanding are the saddle to to my sorrow and death. And we turn around as one with, I, the intension of shooting my adverse with my loving weapon but get hit with their lethal use of me. It is nothing but a tale for these lonesome shadow-ridding cowboys looking for a little adventure. And I crumble to the bullet; I crumble in the far west of my dreams spiked by the wounding rowels. Ridding off into the sunset in this arid and dry region with broken limbs, dry lungs, the abandoned wasteland and the illusions of a prince and a horse. Slowly my armament became like theirs melting within the desolated tract of my infertile loving’s.

Then he came around and he challenged me to a duel but I covered for shelter and hid my heart in a box that I gave to the ranch-less ranchers whom stole it before. On my knees, I begged for it back when I saw him turn and point a loving weapon in my direction. At the precise moment when we turned around as one, hand on the trigger, in the dry desert of our slavery, ready to admit the burden of our secrets, I wished I had in hand what I had naively used in the passed. I didn’t shoot. I let the scene unfold and ended ridding in the sunset with broken limbs, dry lungs, the abandoned wasteland and the reality of a prince and a horse that I had left behind…