It's not horses
We play on
There are golden tones
We find them
Put bits between hinges
And dig heels
For several years
Riding into the dark
Like hunting at night
For foxholes
With craggy sticks
Sharpened with fire and stone
We leave tracks
Like gator tails
Hard to tell
Then, in an instant
bang
Back where we were
Like riding in circles
So sure we weren't
But, what then?
Perhaps an incident this time
We stoke the fire
Collect sticks
--
1.17.13
We play on
There are golden tones
We find them
Put bits between hinges
And dig heels
For several years
Riding into the dark
Like hunting at night
For foxholes
With craggy sticks
Sharpened with fire and stone
We leave tracks
Like gator tails
Hard to tell
Then, in an instant
bang
Back where we were
Like riding in circles
So sure we weren't
But, what then?
Perhaps an incident this time
We stoke the fire
Collect sticks
--
1.17.13
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