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

Comments

Grizzlytide

the golden compus was stolen congrats

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