How wounded the horse that
runs not in freedom, but in fear.

The gentle beast misunderstood,
gracious in beauty and movement.

A life uninspired by the evils of man,
though sometimes influenced by such.

Dust may cloud its trail,
while ever clear remains its path.

Look into the eyes; find hope.

Lay hands upon the smooth frame; know restrained power.

Let whispers into the ears; a friend awaits.

The beast roams not the fields,
it roams the streets.

Freedom is misunderstood,
but fear has inspired.

How gracious the dust that is our path.





- J.G. Smith (10/31/06)