The way I under heard it, twas sketchin' swor'n uppin' downy ken, thin reavers
of the road ripped 'em. Plain shavings left to crumble with the passage of wheels
in times to come. Red demon Sun inflamed and chasing us ever since one down the long
stretched out shadows of the soul. So long as the whole planet keeps rolling,
we gone stay on the ball, on the dark wrapped up path hidden behind sleep.
Our lurking black projections sliding tall and winding up into a darker ball
of memories to disappear amid a crowd of stars. The cool morning breeze
blows in the scent of licorice and lemon trees. A camp fire crackles from dusk
until dawn. Its red embers render faint echoing old messages between constellations.
A Western poem's sidled up and been hitched to a post.
From here ya can't be goin' too far.
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