You and me,
we don't connect
like we used to.

The days are searing,
the sun's a cowboy,
clouds are wolves,
we are the unbroken plain.

We are simply the stage.

We are nothing new.

We won't make it like this,
gnawing at each other,
lying and pretending
that we aren't interested
in the running of the wolves,
or the cackling gunfire
that cowboys let loose in joyous screams.

Ravaging ourselves,
the west blackens as the smell of coal,
acrid, spreads through the air.

Somewhere, a burning
is beginning in the most unnatural way.

Somewhere we feel a tear
in the fabric of ourselves,
where a giant, constant fire
destroying
burns.