Thursday, June 25, 2015

For Man, for Horse, for Anything that Lives

Failure is the price we pay for effort,
And bitterness the cost for all who strive
To show the world that we are not alive
For the tinselled trinkets that are suffered
As replacements for the singing hurt
That stings us on and outward from the hive
And far away from all of those who thrive
On imitation's echoes for dessert.

My mother, in her wisdom, told me once
That horses have their feelings, and the day's
Final mood will put a capstone on it.
So even if a horse has been a dunce,
He must be given one small task for praise
And reassurance. Here: I wrote a sonnet.

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