The stranger rode into town
on a bulletproof steed,
on a horse that could speak
and foretell future events,
on a horse that understood
the concept of mortality
although it could never die,
on a horse of great empathy
that would cry salty tears
for its master's tragic loss.
And yet,
somehow,
the townsfolk
only ever cared
about some crude
horse-shaped pile
of repurposed wooden planks.
Greg R. Fishbone
May 2020