I'm Your Huckleberry

Silver six shooters shine like moonlight

bullet stars in grave flesh rotting;

banish the hot red sun, banish.

Sand soaked red beneath the heat

boiling death in dusty wind;

call out to the night in howling breath.

Blood cards deal the empty hand

four aces do not beat death -

pocket full of gunpowder coin.

Crumpled dollar in her pale hand,

whisked away by dust bowl wind

by ragged stallion's flanks.

A dirty saddle full of dreams

quiet richness of kings and queens -

galloping through open night.

Held fast by calloused hand

silver moonlight gauged in his palm -

wolf eyes set on the horizon.