I turn back:
a horse from the borders
whinnies in wind
hungry for war.
How freeing it must feel to be spatchcocked.
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If you care what others think, even a little (is it possible to care only a little?), then you will
become a sixteen year old girl writing poems in her notes app at eight P.M. This is supported, of
course, by a because.
there is no escape.
it’s as simple as that.
and it won’t
stop the poems
but will change them.
I am prehistoric thoughts.
I am a bard from wizards.
I am familiar of Plato-cave.
Most though, were much like Dorianna. So busy racing around that they wouldn't know a rose if he handed them one. Or have time to smell it.
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