Pilgrim (day 80)

Roaming the badlands for a wondrous find
Of golden parades, or simple disdain
Like a bad weather tragedy
Or a day that’s lasted too long
It’s a drought, holding back the tears
It’s a fight that’s punctured my ears

Cooly raising a rusty can into the air
Filled with spit of ten thousand years
Cornered like a rat scared by a straw broom
Fighting like a skunk, dirty’s the only way
But zen fills the room like an omnipresent colour
Inducing the pilgrims into a fury they’ve only remembered

Remembering a love for the open road
A love for the old willow tree
When wagons had wheels made of wood
The gun spoke the law, the buffalo roamed free
And the peace was the mind
As the tumbleweed spun webs
Roaming the badlands for a wondrous find

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