and the night shines like day
wagon trains beware.
For the lords of the Plains
have awakened
& the season of the raid is ripe
beneath the Comanche moon.
They travel with speed
and stealth.
These wandering warriors
act as locusts in the land.
Stripping crops of unwanted men
from the Comancheria.
Painted faces
red and black
the colors of life
death...
and war.
The rumble of a thousand Mustangs
a stampede of wind and rage
carry ancient pride
and honor
as they descend upon the desert.
Their hooves lay down layers of dust
on the scalped corpses
left baking in the copper clay.
The true test of man
is in either how he
suppresses his pain...
or inflicts it.
The howl of the tribe
will linger through the fall.
Then their women will
cut their faces
as another season of warfare
begins to wither and die
with last blades of Buffalo grass.
And with the onset of winter
the Oregon trail
is quiet once more
resting in the shadow
of a false truce
Till the next Comanche moon.
--Molly N., Adult