The Maverick

Cowboy Poetry

A steady cloud of dust,

rolled across the ground.

The building noise of hooves,

created a thunderous sound.

The maverick led the herd,

his coiled rope in hand.

Guiding the hundreds of mustangs,

over miles of untamed land.

Sitting in his saddle,

like he was born to ride.

The maverick and his horse were one,

as they kept a perfect stride.

The range was in his blood,

it flowed deep in his veins.

Connecting him and horse,

through the grip he had on the reigns.

He knew no other life,

and he never questioned why.

A maverick he was born,

and a maverick he would die.

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