old west, poem, poetry, steam engine, steampunk, story telling, train
Surrendered in the middle of December amidst the Pine and Oak and Spruce Loosely from his lips came his confession of love for the power of the train the extension of the track Leading away from his Puritan life into the wilds of the unknown into the wilds of the West. He couldn't resist the lust of the rust thrust into saloons and parlors cowboys and the lawless the loveless skies and the desert Sucks a man dry or so I've heard and nothing I could do in this winter interlude could change his mind and make him stay. Something about the other side of Mississippi's hips called to him He blundered on to say with the look of a child on Christmas day would I wait for him? I knew his tomb stones on the desert floor would be all I'd ever see of him again. What could I do but surrender? Admit the Fates of Love had turned their eyes Blind to the die cast on this winter floor I would hear his confessions of love no more Just one post - his written word scribbled down in an opiate driven frenzy of his sins on this sun-baked earth he had surrendered to Her higher power and then was silenced. Mississippi's hips and Western tracks are no match for the likes of a humble girl.