Riders of the Great Disturbance

they will always want the haunting
sitting high within their saddle
marking their territory with imminent domain
their stirrups hanging low as hope
too far to be of any support
and yet
they rode into this ghost town on their own accord
greedy
for enterprise
assurance in their eyes
that they deserved whatever they found

finders may be keepers but
keepers rarely find anything real

they will always want the haunting
doubled over in their saddle
huddled under foreign threads
their ponchos placating
like city slicker lawyers
and yet
they rode into this ghost town all alone
casting the
first
second and third stone
against their own adulterous heart

we bring the weight of love upon ourselves
and blame the world when love becomes too great a burden to carry

they will always want the haunting
hanging lifelessly from their saddle
ambition
dripping from their open mouths
their Stetsons covered in clouds of dust
and yet
they rode into this ghost town on their own accord
ignorant
to the fact that ghosts
can never offer anything
but the illusion of existence

Sticks and stones can break our bones
And words can then cremate us.