Waiting Wraith

Escape under cover of squinting morn,
Last modicum of trust has been forlorn....
Little girl sifts through armada of fears,
Christening the pain with shower of tears.
Mystery fiends course through the fugitive's veins,
Cowboy junkies are controlling her reins:
They always ride this range grazed by the dead,
Feeding upon these fertile fields of dead.
Blanket of night is the light-tower beacon;
From the threadbare churches come the vile deacons,
Who herald the magic their powder brings:
" The one faith that turns death into awakening ".
How long will the fugitive keep her faith ?
When shall arise this woman's waiting wraith ?
Little girl, with no more tears to dismiss,
Calmly slips into her ancestral abyss....