'arguement of the century'
an open map is apathy
slowly slinking tired fists
toward the gate - the horses live
and staring at my horses home
i don't feel feelings, flesh, or bone
tired fists – swollen hands
working for the horses' hands
again again, i slave apart
a callus grows, my hands are dark
reluctantly
i open
the gate
and i see the horses
fall away
goodbye horses
i'm crying over you
goodbye horses
i'm dying over you
no more horses
i'm nothing* without you
no more horses
it's pointless* without you
* i'm not really sure what i mean
