Dark Horse II
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|Wed, 02-02-2011 - 2:55pm|
The curtains crumple, they fall
like leaves caught in a storm
and the grit, it litters the road--
a thousand grains of sand
sticks in your throat.
The air's much heavier, now
and the walk is longer, cold.
On a mirrored pond I see
a reflection humbled by years--
furrows petrified on the brow.
The Dark Horse needs reminding,
what's past, cannot be changed.
He cracks an ugly whip,
drags his angry baggage
behind a sullen carriage.
He rides into the shadows
searches for a glimmer of light
but the flame has burnt to embers--
a dismal trail of blackened ashes
leaves hope buried in the night.