Wildhorses


I comfort
the wild and trembling lies
I've locked away in diaries
like ponies
whose flesh is too soft
and tender
for branding.
I feed them grasses
grown on prairies,
where everyone has been,
and ride them down canyons
to streams.
I groom my wild horses,
and tame them with truths
warm as dreams.

But you !
with the saddle
of black-stallion skulls
come wearing spurs
stained with blood:
you bridle young ponies
– too gentle to break –
you burn their skin
with your mark.

You, who speak softly
of verses and right,
come wielding gospels
of dark:
You knock at my gate
and say you will mend
the hoofprints
you find on my heart;
but my lies are too free
to speak of corrals
with those who'd break
my wildhorses.

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