the broken tree
I rode her back
As a real man would.
A stallion can feel their rider
Lift their feet and fall into
their back.
I could feel her
bossom but only that as her
Hoofs crashed against
The dirt raod paved for only two.
Because of my weapon I could only carry six different
bullets.
But I had only one
barrel to paint the Dirt Red.
This poem is about:
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world