Nothing to warm my hands with except my pockets, when once I
could hold onto something soft and tendering, caressing them as they fit
perfectly into my palms, left out now to face the elements, as raw as lobsters,
yet too red, the illusion of what I felt then a figment of an imagination that
does little to warm me, even deep inside, I cling to what I dream of, rather
than what is, like the reign I hold on to as I ride off into some sunset from
some times long gone, not so much the conclusion of a cowboy movie, as the desperate
attempt to bring all this to a ha
ppy ending I only dream of, sticking my hands deep into my
pockets, yet not deep enough.
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