Whisper


Her mane flows, like a whisper, through the ghosts of the mountains.
She runs faster than the hurried river,
amongst the deep dark grasses.
Strong yet subtle.
Cautious yet wild.
Honest and bare,
with the heart of a child!
A dance of five gaits, no harness could hold.
Unencumbered by saddle,
she will never grow old.
Stealth as her stride,
a captive audience, endless, like a sea of jealous tides.
The earth hungers to give her power, to what she already owns.
Nothing can break her.
She's carved out,
chiseled in stone.
She was created to run.
She will never be owned.
Try as they might,
She runs alone.

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