Pastures I walk on
Where my window-less remains.
Crickets and butterflies,
Like this dusty ramblin-rose.
I am not a soldier,
Bandaged up and bruised,
I am a the lone cowboy
Pictured and framed.
It escapes the wild warriors
With my heart: dear, forever.
Like a copper pan at the tin store,
Stars in my campfire.
Cyclical moon which bringeth thy sun:
Boil over warm coffee.
Because I love this way,
Where my window-less remains.