I ride with the sun and sleep under stars, my boots dusty from journeys afar. With a rope in my hand and a hat on my head, I tame the wild where others have fled. I don’t need a saddle to carry my pride, who am I, with the open range as my guide?

I wield the sea with mighty grace, three sharp fingers, one strong face. In a god’s grip, I rule the tide, with every wave, the oceans glide. I’m not a utensil for food or feast, but in my hands, the storm’s unleashed.

I am the hymn of what once was whole, a silent scribe of a vanished soul. I wear the grey of memory’s veil, In death, I speak what life won’t tell. I mark the end, yet still a prize, what name am I, from which phoenix rise?

I can wave, but I cannot see. People use me to represent something..

the moral of a stone weighs heavy on my crown, it rest in my skull as I lay on the ground, a lesson to all that even the strongest can fall.