The Sound of Horses

An Experimental Poem

The Sound of Horses

In the dark excluded evening you watched silently in betrayal

the horses leapt out of the water with no permission.

And the sound of your eyes closing, the squinting of the hail

the masses of the horses stood still in pole position.

You thought of howling out to them, but then made no sound.

The blast from your brains to the thunder went crashing.

Making arrows out of icicles and pushing every rock,

the proud and guiltless hand with the cymbals clapping.

Holding out the watered plant with broken plates atop

the horses and the maids were once innocent now not.

And for every muted mule on the sidewalk in the dark,

the thought of their true love never did run smoother.

In the bright new city centrepiece, you traveled up the road

and the trains pulled their station cafes over your head.

The waiters and the sellers in every walk of life

hand-in-hand with mystery and made their beds.

A fictitious masterpiece eludes your every biased thought

and the horses now wait for the train and wonder.

They wonder about the future and the sightings of the rock

the holy water brought to them by distant thunder.

Thunder in the waiting room by the doctor's office takes

for misused abuse of medicine and God's ol' little mistakes.

And for each and every woman that road of tears takes

the horses stand there muted in their slumber.

The horses of the warriors died out long ago,

they were washed away with a flood like Noah's story.

The darkness of the mule that left the floating pack

for a city in the sky stands with hooves of glory.

He waits for you but you don't come and calls you to the back,

But hark, you hear your eyes and feel it happening.

It takes over your thoughts and should you follow but not come back,

the mule will die with you, isn't it saddening?

The sadness of the deaf and blind that echoes through the sails,

the boats of wicked wonder that save the horses from your jails.

And there's a rapid coming now, the train waits as it hails,

it collects the horses up like a mother.

A beautiful petalled rose falls from your every thought

and your masterpiece illusion is now sickening.

The thought of the broken casket of Kerouac you brought

from a shop across the street is tearing and ripping.

Of all the horses dead and gone, there's one which stands by you.

A ghost of loud courtesy and brutal passion.

A rose of tainted tellers and fortunes not foretold,

a death, a curse, a mule and what they fashioned.

Pouring every word across, vomiting up the night,

the moon and every star that was there now wiped from the sky.

The paradox of mercy that the horses get with betrayal,

the noise they make is too much now to wonder.

Loving fellows tell you of merciless man’s desire,

the last horses waded the water to get away from.

The Cathedral of the cinema had reels of Paradise Lost

but positioned itself in a way where you’re gone at dawn.

The fighting of the animals, the muting mule he walks

the slumber of the sainthood that makes passion ponder.

The breakage of the mental state and flawless seeking past

the paradox elusive of naked wonder.

Harkening the dreadful night in unity now he waits,

the darkened, misused and confused horses now he all forsakes.

And whatever in the universe that God may wish to break,

the horses they sleep soundly in their slumber.

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Annie Kapur
Annie Kapur
Read next: I'm Tired...
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