I was born with silver bullets
lining my tongue,
always quick on the drawl,
a heart that hammers in hooves,
the spirit of wild mustangs,
chasing iron giants,
full of hot ill-tempered air.
They carried cargo in old-fashioned crates,
manufactured with fragile, ego-thin, wood.
Their allure 'treasure', easily taken,
yielding saddlebags full of pyrite,
collected from indolence's streams.
He thought he was impermeable,
questioned if I was really an outlaw,
'til the diesel of him was struck
by my red bandana ricochet,
thunder pulled right out of his engine.
A fool and his 'gold',
so easily parted.
About the Creator
Ellie Hoovs
Breathing life into the lost and broken. Writes to mend what fire couldn't destroy. Poetry stitched from ashes, longing, and stubborn hope.
My Poetry Collection DEMORTALIZING is out now!!!: https://a.co/d/5fqwmEb
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By Ellie HoovsExclusive • 5 months ago
Comments (2)
Evocative throughout this Ellie! I loved "quick on the drawl,"- so clever👏
I love the imagery here. Definitely paints the picture of the wild, Wild West.