Lonesome Praire

I strike the match upon my handle, the wear pollished bone, the aged iron rests in leather set, lines matching my own, the flame touched the paper makein's alight and the smoke fills my breast, like the dark clouds rolling in from the north, my mind boils ever yet.
A pang, a hunger or an ache besets me, as I stare at the bonnets and brushes and blankets faded tint, my eyes gaze idly at the fire and color of one more lonely sunset.
I see her face in the clouds gathered, mama sky is cookin' up a shower, but it tis her golden blue green eyes I've not seen in two moons now, I'm lost beyond their power.
Where I not so very alone, save my horse and dog, I'd spare the breath to utter words croaking like some political frog.
But tis not my nature to speak without expecting some repose, so I sigh out some smoke and close my eyes and remember the warmth of her nose, pressed to my leathery cheek, her voice so soft as she inquires me for some rapture, but not now says I, I've a trail to ride, stray cows I must capture.
But when my work is then done, and to town I will ride, I will wrap my arms about you, like my gunbelt on my hips tonight, tomorrow I will entrap you...

~Caleb