The Ghost Horses and Pancho Villa
The ghost horses,
blacker than the horseshoes
they wore,
glisten as they ride
in the dark ink-stained skies.
Their skulls have no
eyes or tears.
Their souls swirl around
and make their way down
the road. Hunchbacked jockeys
stand out of breath after
chasing the dark ghost horses.
Fine grains of sand
are thrown on the jockeys’ heads.
A vaguely resembling Pancho Villa
sits on one of the horses shooting his pistols.
At the Cemetery Gate
Walking in the cemetery, the graves
of the young seemed especially
tragic. It makes one reminesce
back to one's own youth. There
is a rush of leaves swirling in the
distance. This is the dead dancing.
Cross-legged at the cemetery gates
sits someone you cannot see. He is a
ghost. Not in the mood for dancing,
the wind cannot dry his tears.
Down
The wind rustles in the grey
fields. I sleep through much
of the day. I don’t witness
the flying debris. Lately I have
been feeling a little down.
The wind could not care less.
I feel sleepy. It is not
night. I feel like I
have lost my taste for life. A
chain of circumstance has driven me
here. I am not living a
life of leisure. I am
down. The wind continues to
swirl outside. I sleep
still. I do not know when I
will get up. I lie still. The
noisy blackbirds sing in the gray fields.
I sit up and yawn. I get
up to unlock the door.
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