A young man was he,
barely a day over seventeen.
His whole childhood he dreamed
of riding wild horses,
and living where there were no boundaries.

He was born one hundred years too late.
For back in the old west,
he would of been in his element.

From his black cowboy hat,
to his black boots,
and his rattlesnake attitude.
I am sure he not only would of fit in,
but succeeded at everything he did.

As it was,
he grew up where the streets all had names,
and pavement was his trail.
All the fences held him in,
the west had been settled,
and wild horses were captive.

So he did the only thing he could do.
He dreamed of another time and place,
setting his soul free on the winds.

He drifted through life,
never quite fitting in no matter where he was.
Even in love and marriage,
he was lonely and withdrawn.

As the years kept passing,
one after another,
he grew more and more restless.

Most of the time he spent isolating himself,
hardly speaking to anyone.
The few friends he had,
jokingly called him, the man with no words.

Progress had come and gone.
It killed a lot of dreams for some,
while creating dreams for others.

For this older weathered man,
it had left a wild-eyed boys soul,
forever riding the wind.

03/17/2002

Posted on 03/17/2002
Copyright © 2025 Adrian Calhoun