The sun retreats, the moon moves in and one by one the lights in the village go out. Except for one.
The night air is quiet, the only sound to be heard comes from the graveyard. Cross legged before a tombstone a skeleton runs its hand over the engravings pondering who it once was, yearning for its former life, the identity it can never get back.
(Head bowed, the skeleton stays the night.)
Final embers flicker and fade
in the twilight wind.
Sallow horse wanders the mesa
the skeletal gaucho glancing at the stars.
The gaucho sits, propped up by a cacti.
Wraith bone horse nibbles on a sage bush
oblivious to the fact it cannot eat.
Skeletal fingers run through sand,
sketching patterns and shapes
dust slipping through osseous grasp
scattering on night tide winds.
A journeying villager sees in the sand
a drawing of a horseback rider,
going somewhere, anywhere.
On the second fragment “the identity it can never get back” might have been “what it can never be again”. Feedback is welcomed.