Long in the tooth, people say. Gray hairs
dusting his temple, this gelding plays the
part of good uncle, passers-by tickle his
nose to show their familiarity, unaware of
of the memory that kind of touch brings this
stoic gelding who remembers too far back,
too sad a time. Past his prime, people say.
No, he carries his guarded history with him,
each era of his life in each swing of his leg,
power and pride, to distract from a slightly
frayed nerve, small sparks in a wet wound, his
secrets his own to hold behind a discreet eye.
Offering himself, even now, as is. For you.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
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