The grave yard was old and unused,
It matched the starkness of the land.
Just upon a barren hillside,
Where cacti now made a stand.
Words were barely legible,
On what crosses that still graced the site,
As I crossed under a port with a cross,
I feared coming here at night.
The tomes of the old west, claimed this was "boot hill",
A place where the evil were laid,
This was the end of the rope,
The terrible price they must have paid.
Over there one had killed twenty men,
Just beyond a bank robber had been shot.
There was no good written in this graveyard,
No kind word for any in the lot.
I wondered if words had been read over them,
Or were they just dumped in these lonely graves,
For the Good Book once told me,
It’s the soul that needed to be saved.
Bowing my head, I sent a message,
Tho many years had been passed by,
A hot arid wind brushed me,
In my thoughts did I hear someone cry?
The black line stretches before me,
The flashes of white, eaten by the speed.
I left that lonely graveyard,
And prayed I helped their need.
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