In Search of Inspiration

I just heard the bang, and in minutes, it tumbled dead.
It flipped-flopped rocks over dust. Head first, then toes.
It rolled down to a deep gorge; to its tomb. . .

- -

For years, we galloped canyons over canyons
with my horse of thoughts.
My imagination was the sheriff, and I was the cowgirl.

We dashed into a sunset, and there, at the edge of a cliff,
he said:

"Atta boy!" ( Phew! My horse of thoughts had stopped)

But from there, mounted upon my horse,
we gazed into the ravine. Quietly.
Losing ourselves into the eyes of the canyon;
into the rivers of sorrow that with the passing of years
had evaporated into a couple of tears.
And then, as the night fell upon our shoulders,
I held tighter to him; to his waist; to his scent. I felt safe.
Safe to dream. Safe to imagine him forever with me.

He was like the saddle in my horse,
he was like the stem in a rose,
he was like the rifle in his sturdy hand,
he was like the hat in my head.
He was who inspired this verse
He was ...

who also inspired this prose.

And as the sun rose, my horse of thoughts, trotted back home.
To the reality of the world. Where my sheriff, was no more.
Where I was not a cowgirl. Where my thoughts were no longer
a horse but a bandit who shot my imagination into the unknown.

- -

And I, upon waking up:

I just heard the bang, and in minutes, it tumbled dead.
It flipped-flopped rocks over dust. Head first, then toes.
It rolled down to a deep gorge; to its tomb...

Written by: L.L.

For Mr. Larry's contest.