Horses in the wind— a poem

 

You crave, you claim, you run away from it.

Born out of the cries of an everlasting wound. You are, oh trust me.

You. Are.

The blood, the wail, the fear. You are.

And how can one be if you don’t even know where to land your feet?

Time may be an invention from the underworld,

but my goodness! Doesn’t it help to know?

That it is coming closer? That the fields will hug you a little tighter tonight?

My goodness, my boy! Stop running if you have nowhere to go.

Freedom only consumes one’s soul once you know where to go.

 

Tip toe around the shore—

Oh, I know, I know you are terrified of how the water kisses you slowly.

How it wraps their body so loosely around your hooves— just tight enough to feel, but never to touch.

Closer and closer the waves come to you.

Kiss it back or run towards the never closing/ always bleeding wound inside those very same fields you promised to never call home once you learnt the way out.

Did you?

Did you?

Pray for a third- hand luck, my boy— go back to the ocean while you still can bleed.