The Wounded Horse

You are a wounded horse
On the edge of abyss.
The tracks your thoughts make
Are so vastly intangible
There’s not much
Of you left.

I pray for you
Though I have no religion
And hope for you
Though I possess no decision.

Your choices of smoke
Are quickly becoming
An icicle cloak
Behind which freezes
The blood
Once running.

I pray for you
Though I have no reason
But that something
Has brought us together
For a season.

And somehow the waves
You make as you move
Create in my spirit
A permanent groove.

We are both in danger.