Be lost out there,
distant out in the wild,
wild west,
tried down by the heat,
nowhere to go,
yet to only where the sun will rise,
gone out for that,
situate far,
in the distance one will go,
into the wild west,
bearing the heat,
frisky dancers,
gun slingers,
wild men in paint,
and those in growing anger,
so remote,
out in the lands of sand and rivers thins,
as they go farther ways no dreams at first withheld deep within,
the wind blows much as whips,
striking to break skin,
yet to always,
out to where the sun rises high,
to west we go on,
in secret thus only whispers in the ears,
through the years,
of wondering,
and to only wander towards,
in watching when,
coming near the end of the west,
where it all ends for it,
before the sea,
is all that left there,
to even watch beside oneself,
watching it thrive,
much as a embodiment of a soul of it,
sun will rise,
but also set,
a day by now,
will go back,
but even in so of it all,
nor being such as it is,
rise and set,
ticking as which are so easily are missed,
yet as it rises in the west and sets in the east,
overheated lands of the wild west,
there will be a night,
cloudless as ever,
stars in sights,
heat bearing down,
but also rising in a cold fog,
yet also remember that soul rose,
that reminds once self,
to what rises will set,
where is the same,
even in the wild west,
a rose grows,
as does the soul,
in wisdom,
and future,
there is only the now,
moving as the sun,
yet standing tall as a rose,
that grows in the night,
breaking laws,
with no care,
only doing what it can,
and maybe wish to do soon.




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