PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The boy took me high on a wild horse ride,

Through his adolescant fears of youthful scars which

I wear tied around my neck in black ropes of submission, 

though only speaking across cigarette clouds.

We perched atop the mercurial minds of past loves,

drinking home brewed wine

of sweet white relief,

virginal there in the Arctic North,

lost innocence appearing in asexual mirroring.

Speaking of love symbolized in Lakota fables of bison hunts for white robes and the ultimate

Release of possession, a story given,

Whose turn took a pause and

letting go.

The sacred white robe is the one you cannot have

for fear of tabboo,

or the death of an idol.

Always roaming, tempting the mind,

riding a heartbeat,

in our loins of

unquenched desire.

I scanned the ruins,

my one unrequited

who taunts only in dreams, since slinking rejected out of the dawn shadows of

those red streaked canyons, under the blood red clouds, and the Little Missouri, 

leaving me to wonder;

"Its the shot you do not take",

The boy said with a solemn smile.

All to move forward in idealist notions,

the reality far more resistant

as he walked me home.

The lost Viking boy, 

living among the ruins of Cold War philosophy, with a drug redeemed mind,

in the rebirth of indigo lights binding as

glaciers melt away.

I sang of a new perspective from the bottom.

Lying among all the encasements of lipstick

And unpaid credit, wearing nothing but diamonds.

I saw it there, in Reykjavik,

as did my mind  removed from the American West, wandering home.

Since that day I linger, living that

philosophy 

With the moving view from my tower as it comes crashing down, but 

nothing more matters.

I am unfrozen now by my remotely picturesque

Ramblings of the

American West.