Alone

small dreams

and less hope,

futility embraces

the weary soul

with crooked finger

points the way to go

to the barren lands

where chiefs once stood

in reverent awe

of raptors flight

relinquishing all

in a noble fight

for what can’t be owned

 still goes unsold,

a majestic creature

worth more than gold,

a fragrance divine,

rivers without end,

I stand alone

cleansed by the wind

by Dave Holloway