With my gun, I jump into the Jungle of words,
Looking for stories hidden In the herds,
Grazing the field and stampeding over the soil--
With rhymes and themes criss-crossing as if a foil.
The campfire smoking the air with haze,
Chocking my lunges and blurring my eyes without grace,
Heartbeat and tears held back by a dam,
Escaping the heat of the desert like a charm.
Voices rushing like rivers into my head,
Scaring the drought as it crashes the soil ahead,
Filling up the cracks that had form,
Giving birth to greens for the herd to storm.
At last a story falls through,
Carried by the owl into the tree, that's true.
As it's branches drops metaphors onto the floor,
With a clear view I take a shot, catching it with my paw.
