Breaking Horses

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
tanned leather,

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.

 

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