Little hasn’t already been said
About this gravity defying quadraped
Sinew, muscle, blood and bone examined
They are
Trapped
Living lotteries
Racing glory, knee jarrs
Knackers yard.
They were the first drummers
Their hooves’ precussion
Introducing us to Rhythm
They are the legions of spectral heroes
And villains
Shot, bruised, battered
Constantly
Pricked
In the sides by the spurs of history
Of mankind.
They are birds without wings
Soldiers without guns
Guardians without voices
Their image refracts
Their folklore is infinite.
No comments:
Post a Comment