The Breath of Horses

An Experimental Poem

The Breath of Horses

Over the city and the universe, tied tongues gather the forks

for the horses and the trailers that spend the winter.

They harvest through the mind of the shadows as they talk

to your mind and change your decisions without permission.

A gentle thief with cannonballs strapped down to his feet

he walks thorough on his toes clad in coat-hangers.

The purple monster of dread pulls purpose from his hands

and presses down the buttons of hatred and anger.

Thunder and the lightning comes from the sainted churches of

the martyred man of wisdom and the children from above.

And calling out the wrecking ball is coming down to shove,

the horses in the water are barely breathing.

The deep and blackened evening, the crystal bell of the ball

the shadowy master runs from midnight crashing.

The random mind of the genius, the countless counted fates

that made him who he is without even asking.

He shudders at the very thought of tragedy made to play

a part in his gathered wisdom depleting.

The ashes of the gentleman, the rotting body of the grey

haired lady on the battlefield of hapless breathing.

The horses run the shadows away and build a safety gate

where the genius waits for judgement day but it’s a day too late.

And the woman in the cemetery, for her dead husband she will pray

for the last baby mule to take her breath away.

The masterful mind of government, the circular demon’s hole

that had no chance of being or belonging anywhere.

The capital letter of your own name that on that canvas you have drawn

and there’s no picture, just empty paper everywhere.

They cover up the floorboards from melting brown to red

and the dying horse he bleeds on to the paper.

The man who stands at the doorway watching the horse die

lights cigarettes and puts them out on nature.

Flashing out the eyes of man and cutting down the trees,

he bleeds out all his wonder and fortune now deceives.

And for each and every dying horse that God will never see

the aching man he waits for judgement day.

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Annie Kapur
Annie Kapur
Read next: Poem: New Life
Annie Kapur

Film and Writing (M.A)

Writer: "Filmmaker's Guide"

Focus: Adaptation from Literature, Horror Filmmaking Styles and Auter Cinema

Instagram: @anniethebritindian

See all posts by Annie Kapur