The real cowboy. There’s a story in her eyes.
This is the place where idea clouds brew.
Where the lightning strikes the dawn anew.
Where poets die nourished for only they knew
To express- not detest this sprawling, wandering, golden-eyed tattoo.
With a flash
The paparazzi of the sky
Ambushes us from up on high
With a slash of light
At night it’s time to strike
In the darkness the room is a million miles wide
I could choose to get and angry or frustrated or cry, but instead I’ll choose to be happy and I don’t have to know why. And I could choose to be tired or burnt out or wrecked, but I’ll smile instead and laugh with the best.
Frantic feet might dance in the street but when they get on stage they keep the beat.
The bar doesn’t water down their drinks but my melted ice does a mighty fine job.