Draft Horse In the Furnace
Most pain comes from something we've lost
,, like a life or a love- or a favorite dog.
How better to deal with the harshness of ghosts,
We plow on; we must plow on.
Will you crawl to a cave and wither away?
Or sit in the sun - repair the wings of your faith,
Will you search for things to fill in the spaces?
But you can't bring what's dead back into life
Death by far owns the deepest of pits.
So, we tap salt and asphalt into the abyss
and plow on; we must plow on.
Each loss forms a string of asps in the mind.
Snapping wildly at sanity and hobbling stride-
Will you proudly wear pain like a soldier of medal and scar,
or cover it up in a 90-proof Mason Jar.
But we plow on; we must plow on.
We're draft horses working the rocky fields of life.
Whips forever cracking in the foyer of the mind.
Wooden backs bowing to the fierce furnace of time.
But we must plow on; we must forever plow on.
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