I often ride this not-so-tall a horse,
Back aching, leaning crumpled,
Dashing to the rescue of the forsaking muse.
Smelling of the tides of war,
My faithful dog bites itself,
Trying vainly, discourtesy aside,
To reach the common goal.
My armor is light with feathers,
Tempting with the bull's eye
Of its elegant V shaped neck.
My sword rusts there in indignation,
Forgiving as natural to it as believing,
But I smite it just the same; just.
I often amble in these burning pastures,
Speeding at impasses and slowing at the gates of hypocrisy;
It would do no good to challenge that one in this weather,
surely?
The mills drive by, now fully content by their wheels,
Spinning giants atop, lowly dwarves whispering behind their
noble brows,
Chit-chatting in the easy breeze of mid afternoon strife
delight.
Circling the florid mound, the mare recruits the stony
aperture to her aid,
Casting swift slippery shadows across the ravine's edges and
into the crowded center,
Frightening sleepy scorpions long not in use and dreamy emo
children,
Whinnying as I caress the reddish mane, gawking at the dark
slit within.