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Wild Horse

The Wild Horse He who seeks only control becomes drunk 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. And then; 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 © | Year Posted 2019




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Date: 3/28/2019 10:31:00 PM
Your vibrant poetry is flamboyant and flings me around, my friend!
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