Black Horse

Black horse of thunder, black horse of storm

Stampede of darkness o’er the morn

Clods of horizon flung up in air

Swallowed in dust and dusky despair

The winds are rushing; their clatter of hooves

Splatter droplets of soot running down grooves

Yes, the world is running, running from whom?

 

Black horse of ire, black horse of end

From my window, it adopts canter again

And the world changes courses again

Here they come, running this way

Away from that steed that tramples the day

In hopes of saving afternoon

Yes, the world is running, running to whom?

 

The equinoctial gallops across

And bridges the gap ‘tween scattered and lost

And the world is all scattered and lost

And hope is all scattered and lost

 

A flock of sheep bleat in their pen

And scramble around, all scattered and lost

A flock of words bleed from my pen

And fumble around, all scattered and lost

 

 

The black mare snorts outside,  

Gazing through my windowpane

And I know that it is time again

When night overtakes the day

 

And leaves us groping for a way

And leaves us groping for a way. 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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