Western
Raw piercing whistle promises places
not here.
Somber timeworn tracks demark possibilities,
thankful for the regularity of commerce
allowing timetables meaning.
Caged, awaiting indeterminate freedom.
Irony does not escape me.
I find comfort in harsh Revelations
babbled by a mad prophet through
shining eyed peasants and their Lords,
progressing through tribulations,
power games of strategy and blindness.
Land sold out from under pensioners,
struggling families,
children learning to live without a home.
Is this the Lord's Covenant?
Times, forms, enemies change.
The game goes on.
Bright golden Sun absorbs mist
a glorious dawn.
The smell of lonesome prairie after
the train's rushed through.
On this side of the bars,
life is slow
awaiting judgment.
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