story: sixty injured horses

sixty injured horses came galloping down
towards the broken house, - black
shattered frames lay where the smart
sturdy once stood, quietly.

"I guess we will graze now," said Larkhorse
(he was silently appointed leader about five-hundred and thirty miles back)

And so they grazed, ashen blades.

It had burned through the foundation
thanks to a feverish fellow
forgetfully dozing without extinguishing.
A rancher once without bounds.
It is likely he is shackled to some hellfire resort.
It were the horses who were boundless now.

"This tastes sour," Gablehorse commented
cud spilling from his whisker face.
He was told to stop complaining
by the famished fifty-nine.

They grazed until they could graze no more,
not that there was much to begin with.
Sounding the signal of release the
sixty sped away, Larkhorse in the lead
while Gablehorse pulled up the rear.

Trails of their blood hidden amongst the
black. No green.
Trodden black remains smell of manure
and time lost.