The Cowboys Dancing
On the turn to Gold Dust Road,
There is an old cowboy house.
It's nothing special, really.
With it's roof all torn up,
Like it had been clawed by an angry bird,
And paint which had long since faded.
On one side is a decent looking place,
Not very affected by the years.
But on the other side,
There is a smaller,
Much shabbier house,
That looks like it can't survive one more harsh winter.
The cowboy house is still there,
Standing proudly,
Shielded from the fire-like sun,
By the friendly old oak tree,
Surrounded by tipsy fences,
Reminders of a time long ago,
When the cowboys reigned.
If you listen hard enough,
The sound of the rope can be heard,
Lashing through the air,
Men yelling and cows mooing.
As the sun's light begins to fade,
You can hear the ghosts dancing,
Whirling the night away.
Happily clutching their loved ones close.
They are celebrating a hard life's work,
Finally able to dance again.
So that was my poem that I wrote for a poetry slam. It got second place and I wanted to put it in here.
