"Xanthus"

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The stranger rode into town
     on a bulletproof steed,
     on a horse that could speak
          and foretell future events,
     on a horse that understood
          the concept of mortality
          although it could never die,
     on a horse of great empathy
          that would cry salty tears
          for its master's tragic loss.

And yet,
     somehow,
          the townsfolk
     only ever cared
          about some crude
     horse-shaped pile
          of repurposed wooden planks.

Greg R. Fishbone
May 2020

From the Author of...

Poetry!
Generic article | Nov 20, 2020

 
 

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