They would be cowboys again,

Roaming wild on plains so free.

The mob’s fiendish head led a chant

“Burn the red tape, release the economy!”

One stood alone against the braying crowd:

My friend Tara, embodiment of civility.

Voice hoarse, she cried back

“No. That ain’t how it’s gonna be.”

 

The beast pirouetted on the spot

To taunt her, arrogant as could be.

“We’ll make this country great again”

As the fires rose he cackled with glee.

 

The vile flames grew ever higher

With demonic heat and intensity.

Colossal, unquenchable, feasting forever,

Turning beauty into ugly debris.

 

Finally the flames reached brave Tara,

No more battles for she.

That wizened face trapped forever

In a mask of serenity.

 

This the second entry in a poetry trilogy. Is that a thing? Well, it is now. The story starts with Tara : Past.

I still don’t really know what I’m doing, but this kind of thing can only help my regular writing, right?