I’ve lived the Western frontier, drew swords with wild tumbleweed and danced the tango with ravenous wolves.
I have rolled in dirt, for the sake of art!
I’ve painted myself purple, running under the sun.
I have lived after dying.
Dried from the arid air after a wash.
I grew, and shrank.
I’ve become me more than ever.
I have loved every second of it.
More than I would have thought.
The monsoon gives life to the dead crisped sun-caked dirt.
Though…the lush green forest of my homeland, such a distant and faded memory.
It seems forever ago that I bathed my soul in natures flowing caress.
An age since I quenched my thirst in a gentle brook.
Kneeling by the water’s edge in soft moss.
Distant memories, aye!
Slowly, they awaken an itch!
An urge that never really went away!
Though I adore the long walks in familiar forests.
I’ve frankly had my fill of nefarious Southern mobsters, that proudly call themselves the “one percent”
I think my next destination will be somewhere cooler and North…and green beyond my wildest dreams.