Goblin Valley

Whitestone drew his knife and crossed his neck in desperation.
Dirty blood dripped into the canyon below.
His eyes bloodshot with fury.
His past bloodshot with pain.
His every breath was thick poison.
The life Clayton wanted had taken the first train eastward.                       
His dry lips spat a curse into the air to his once seen destiny.                            
One waltz brought to an end and another glass filled.                                            
Leaning on Liverstroke's saddle into the nights.                                              

The old colonel ripped up his last picture in his journal.                                           
His family wanted him to forget them.

The desert killed his pulse,                   
the vultures picked him clean,         
and the sagebrush buried him.