When were you a wild horse
racing across my plains,
your spirit untethered,
your limbs loose and long?
Why did you splice yourself
into the stultified world
and sew your edited shirts
back together in conformity?
What made you begin
to hate what you loved,
to unfinish what you started
and dig that moat around your art?
Where did you gallop to,
your white mane stark against the gray,
tattoos bleeding off your skin,
your tender ankle bones almost broken?
Who will wait out the race,
polish your new shoes, cling
to your soft sides, caress your face
like a mother with a lifted heart?
2 comments:
This has such powerful imagery. I especially love stanza 4. The line about the tender ankle bones almost makes me wince.
Beautiful, really. It speaks very clearly. I love it. Great job!
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