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Often seeking roller coasters, fast boats, thrill rides, moving trains, racing in their classic roadsters keeps blood pumping in their veins. Danger and exhilaration, often going hand-in-hand, fill life with anticipation, cause horizons to expand. Mocking fate without a second thought, the daring wants an edge, vigor as they never reckoned, walking on the rooftop ledge. They can only tame their fear if they test the next frontier. 
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The untamed West bred savage discontent, with terror wrought by thieves and thugs, until chaotic lives made citizens intent to search for those who handled guns with skill. Three brothers moved about, from town to town, eliminating acts of bloodshed, resolute, the wake of purging crime made them renown, and mayors flocked, all hoping to recruit. The brothers tried, with Earps' example clear, to end the lawless countryside's mystique. The outlaw gangs would hide in mortal fear; brutality diminished week by week. Unheralded by history, retired, the brothers bask in how they were admired. 
The window to my inner self holds unobstructed views, if only one would take the time, distinguishing the hues, observing how true loyalty once gained can be abused. That window is not hidden, yet the distant peak can blur within the sight of wrinkled lines, the plains of caution spur the sad emotion of regret, of friendships that once were. A window opened to the world allows the breeze of pain, but also breathes alternatives to build up life's terrain. I'll risk misdeed and find success that growth will ascertain. 
The blossoms cry for help from us, the masters of this planet now, we sometimes notice, then discuss, determined to repent, we vow to rectify our deeds, and thus we raise our voices, take a bow. For what, the earth will want to know, it's we that made our future bleak. The flowers feared this long ago, that human tears are really weak reminders, reaping what we sow is what we do, our self-critique. We may not see the flowers cry- they wait until the rain's about- this world is ravaged, gone awry, but can't express its utter doubt. Perhaps you never wondered why their whorls have dew, and grass without? 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
November 2020
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