Gerri

Your love of Horse, a needling wire, allows for no discourse, no rush to atone, for the offerings of desire, hands like ice cold stone, cut our morning recourse, fevered in dawn’s grey light, they run a river’s course, on burdens we own, through candlelit nights, our demons ride home, there is no concourse, for ourselves or the time, friends have all withdrawn, we sail all alone, like a tide breaks the line, circumnavigates the globe, laughing on fire.