A Rider Needs to Listen to her Horse

This poem is a poem of Love, a love whose love is not enough.

A love that always to all happens, a sheer, useless, subtle madness.

It seems so trite, so old and torn, to write of something that’s so worn.

What but for me it’s just a first, that streaming numbness of no words.

That feel of someone who’s forbidden, to keep away and always hidden—

A horse that sees a gate ahead, and knows the gate was never meant.

A horse that keeps on riding forward, towards that gate that’ll never open.

A horse that sometimes comes to stops and halts, almost about to give up hope.

And then, almost as surely, just to continue cruelly.

Sometimes it stops, sometimes it trots, in hopes the gate is far ahead,

For when it’s at the gate, it’ll know that all the hope’s already gone:

Its hopes will be forever gone, although it never held the one.

Sometimes the horse just wishes, the gate never existed.

To see the fields wide open, the pastures wild and green,

To graze on grass and run the wind.

Isn’t it what all horses do, what they are made for, when they’re true?

Perhaps chasing a gate up a deserted alley, was just being nature’s cruel folly?

Perhaps it’s best that there’s no rider, atop the horse to give him orders?

Orders to find what’s been there, given, to run after a senseless, empty riddle?

Perhaps the rider is, by nature, sadistic, obstinate, and reckless?

Perhaps she doesn’t even know, her poor horse can trip and fall?

And isn’t it so idiotic, that she might die for something useless though hypnotic?

Let us just hope, that she looks for an instant at her horse,

And that that one brief little instance, will make her understand,

That it’s so good for woman, to gently stroke her horse,

Not having her reigns pulling at his nose,

And let him lead the way, to grass and waterfalls.

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