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The Cowboy

Rises the cowboy, garments made of cloth and leather; 

Fixes his worn saddle to his weary mule, and rides for parts unknown. 

Scorched and burdened, he does not know where he will roam, 

The hopes and ideations of others was not his tether. 


Only seeing burnt umber and ochre, the world was bare. 

No trees nor brush gave refuge from this unforgiving sun. 

His hands were cracked and his head was heavier than none, 

While sweat permeated his dirty blonde hair. 


There lies the cowboy in the warm, wet mud, 

Found by weary settlers of a distant plot. 

The settlers gently picked up his body and placed him in their wagon with a thud. 

One settler muttered, “Poor bastard died out here all for naught.”  

The once brave cowboy laid lifeless in the wagon, with a mouth full of blood, 

For none of this was what he sought. 


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