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Bucking Bronco, 1903 (Oil on Canvas), by Newell Convers Wyeth |
In the desert
The outlaw walked
With an aimless determination
Looking to escape the hellish sand
Thirsty and on the cusp
Of death
And in the distance
The bronco galloped
With a burning will
And a dangerous freedom
That was carefully toiled
By the hands
Of Mother Earth
The outlaw turned his eye
And approached
With caution and with stride
Rope in hand
Lassoed and twirling
Ready to strike
This was not the first time
The outlaw and the bronco
Had met
It had been a long winded dance
And the bronco remained untamed
Taunting the outlaw
Across the wasteland plains
In a cursed and
Torturous mock
Yet it felt different this time
The outlaw told himself
As he crept closer to the beast
He was grizzled now
Scruff of neck
Battle scarred and
Beaten
From previous attempts
At ill-fated domestication
The outlaw understood now
That the bronco could not be conquered
With force
But instead accepted
For the wild that it was
With a cosmic understanding
And a symbiotic love
Only found
In the astral
So with newfound mentality
The outlaw whipped his rope
Over the bronco's chestnut neck
And wrestled his way
On top once more
The bronco bucked and neighed
With anger and fear
And a righteous power
Conjured by the souls
Of a thousand generations
But the outlaw's touch
Felt different this time
To the bronco
As their pulses interwove
And their spirits intertwined
And the bronco could tell
There was a battered peace
In the outlaw now
A celestial perception
Unknown
Until that very moment
And so the bronco steadied
Muting its breath and kick
And the outlaw pet the bronco's mane
Easing both their minds
If only for a moment
And all at once
- ZB James