Wild Horses

I wake up at sunrise to say good morning to it, but I do not have the willpower to sleep with it. I love how the night caresses me, as she dances and breathes, I step in and see the man I am.

But as I grew past my 20s, I began to adore the sun much more. On the backs of horses with piebald coats, I had seen that life on two legs was not meant for me. There was no need for taxes or petty affairs. You did not have to pay the cobbler for a worn down shoe. They did not grieve the could-have-beens of their lives.

I was not a horse of manual labor, the ones I had kept so long in stables my earlier life. Why if I had not been such a fool, all of them would not have died of old age in the service of men. But a wild one. Built on blood, spit, and desire.

I wish to long forget this life and start anew.

Though most horses won't live past thirty, perhaps that is the only thing to feel sad about. All the horses he would have to outlive and all the goodbyes he would have to speak.