You are getting closer,
I can hear the crunch of soft sand
the skitter of stones beneath your boots.
Your scent fills my flared nostrils
And your hands of steel butterflies
float over proud bones luring me
to the killing fields.
Your fingers are the scent of
I lick them like fresh flesh wounds.
Your feathered crop gently brushes my shoulders,
no one can save me now, there is nothing to do,
because you have always known how
to break wild horses.