The Rage

Holding her
she breathes . . . .

I feel warm horses
trample up my neck
each landing of a hoof
murmurs a syllable.
I listen as the horses
rage in slow motion
their muscular legs moves like wheels,
like two spinning records,
the syllables begin falling together,
whispering songs.

I hear her voice . . . .
I hear her voice . . . .

But today
she went away . . . .

The horses lay scattered
on my skin.
I dig graves
in the cemetery of my memory
where I lay those cold and silent creatures
to be remembered.

She is away,
I hear her voice . . . .
She left me
with a slaughtered
mind.
I, hear, her, voice . . . .
She, is, away.
I, feel, her, breath . . . .

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