Another day lost to the dreamer, pitiless,
wasted scorn.Sitting in self made confines
feeling hopeless and a  trifle bit worn.
 
In the mind of damaged, misspent youth,
the devil did wander these halls.Now
and then remembering defeat, time was
like river water rushing over the falls.
 
All that the dreamer longed for, simply
was not meant to be.No one waited, as
did the dreamer, no one and nothing
beneath.
 
At times he’d ponder a life of adventure
and the virtue of a damsel in need....of
the hand of an unsung hero....he could
be that hero indeed.
 
So as seasons passed and the dreamer
grew tired, he thought to himself with
a grin."Gone are the days of my misspent
youth, to waste time further would surely
be a sin".
 
So with no further thought he laced up
his boots and made his way to the den.
He grabbed his fathers old shooting iron
and scratched the graying whiskers that
grew on his chin.
 
He’d lived his best years in perpetual sleep
and it fit his recollection that day.The dream
was all he ever had lived, as he  let the buckshot
spray.

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Some poets followed by Antonio Rodriguez...

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