While his eye pierce
In a Pacific swell.
The mountains to our west- a murky cobalt
splashed by sorrel clouds,
Looming over 10,000 karat grasslands.
Gleaming and shining
In Autumn sunlight.
This trend I see, a recurring dream
Like the fiery leaves
That burst, soon falling dead,
Time dies too soon so that
Even a weekend decays.
Falling away with the season, the leaves,
The tide in his eyes, into my own abyss.
But I don’t want the falling embers
Because they burn and hurt
Like whiskey on his lips and this recurring dream.
So I flee from it, I run, I drive
I drive into that Cheyenne sky
And let it swallow me up