Cowboying Along

It's been a long ride; beneath me a phantom horse wheezes its lungs blown. I chose a slow death not some youthful suicide. Illness and a life misused took its pound of flesh, the surgeons knives were never far from my body. If I had a Stetson I would tip it to a fair lady and ride slowly on, but I have just this keyboard, and it does not play long symphonies any more, just brief words that pluck a few faltering heart-strings. The sheriff of despair has chased me all along this long trail, so far I am ahead and so is my horse, just.