She lead me to the place by the burnt down rodeo
Where the dixie cups used to lay
On the dirt, near the hurt,
She took pictures, then said we had to go.
So blind we are to other’s pasts,
That we are forced to rely on story.
Having faith in one’s painting of the truth,
So much, it becomes our own. Proceed.
We stand back, admire it.
Compliment. Comfort. Console. Kiss.
Bare hands touch bodies becoming bare. Caress.
Imagine everlasting perfection, stemming from the chaos of life.
Down she goes.
Up I go.
Temptation leads to bliss.
Bliss to blunder.
Blunder to thunder, to rain, to growth on the hills.
“Flowers, they sure are pretty.”
She said to me.
I fell asleep, and never awoke,
But dreamt everlasting.
Of a rodeo, adrift at sea.
by Ben Kyler