She was born with dust on her boots
and trouble in her shadow—
the kind of trouble
that follows you slow,
like it knows
you’ll never shake it loose.
They call her an outlaw,
but she never meant to be one.
Life just taught her early
that some roads ain’t straight,
and some sins
don’t wash off easy.
She’s ridden through towns
that whispered her name
like a warning,
like a prayer,
like a story told
to keep children indoors.
She’s stolen time,
not gold—
running from the woman she was
toward the woman she might be,
hoping the distance between them
counts for something.
Nights get long on the run.
The moon watches everything,
silent as a judge
with a tired heart.
But still, she rides—
not for glory,
not for fear,
but because the horizon
has a way of calling someone
not yet ready
to stop fighting her own ghost.
Maybe outlaw’s just another word
for someone who keeps moving
when the world tries
to pin her down.
And if that’s a crime—
then let the dust
be her alibi.
Through the Fog 