Corralled


The wild horses of her temper,
corralled in the beauty of her eyes.

Thunder-bucked colts
stirring up dusts of old hurts,
stamping the dry, red earth of her.

Where truth, in hooves, belies
the exterior, becalmed
in a refusal of reaction,

and mouth, like eyes,
holding fire.

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17 thoughts on “Corralled

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