The Breaker of Horses

You walked over the ocean just to see the angels

praying to their god that you could have the horses alive.

You opened your eyes with suitcases and horrors;

the demon that waited broke into your sight.

The ghosts of the horses wait down by the river,

you stand with your arrogance, staring into space.

You’ve broken the horses, tamed all the creatures.

But you’ve fallen from heaven without a drop of grace.

The hotel was frozen with the ice-burning halos

taken from the heads of the horses that went by.

The curtains stained purple with the blood of the martyrs.

It shines the cracks of the paint back into your eyes.

The young mare is gone but what more could you have given him?

He walks into the sea with his purpose in a brace.

You must be contented for there’s no other feature

that you could have more than pain, painted on your face.

Your face is half-altered and the last horse leaves slow.

Your suitcases are all plagued and paralysed.

The artist’s work hangs from a bare bent nail

and the mare doesn’t come back to say his goodbyes.

You watch from the window as he moves to the far brim;

the beach filling like a bowl of water in the rain.

You open your eyes wide but you’re still blind to your torture

and you close up the curtains to let go of the pain.

And when you lay in your bed that night,

plagued by the suitcases that rattle with strange noises.

You’ll regret it again, promise yourself paradise

and tell the world that last night you dreamt of horses.