The Wild Horse
He who seeks only control
on the clouded waters,
drawn from the wells of will.
And his heart,
remains the size of a thimble.
He is the flamboyant fool in the velvet coat,
whose starched collar
chaffes the wrinkles at his throat.
He grips an ancient map
charted by ancient men,
plotting a dark dead land,
where he has heard his own castle awaits him.
And so filled is he with his own assurity,
so intent on his own success;
that he straddles the wild horse.
The very essence of life itself.
He wears razor spurs at his heels,
and he is not regretful at using them.
He believes it is permissible
to inflict pain upon the flesh,
if it should make him lord
over what cannot be tamed and
should never be reined.
But long before his journey's end,
his life force is expended.
And as he tires,
he spits harsh words and curses
at the same magnificent animal
that serves to bear his weight.
In his path,
boulders fall and break,
to slow his way, make him think again.
But he forgoes the warnings.
Lush pastures he passes,
where the wild horse longs to
explore or graze.
But he ignores them.
Instead, he forces his way
through the sacred trails,
long ago reclaimed by the pixies.
just as he eyes
the distant grey fort that he has longed for
upon the cliffs of his ambition,
he is tossed and bucked
and flung into a bush of thistles.
And there he lies,
broken and bruised,
all fancies forgotten.
Left only to his pleading and weeping
for the very life itself
that he attempted to
squash into submission.
Pippa gray 2018.
Copyright © Pippa Gray | Year Posted 2019
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment