The Torturer's Horse

The
Torturer's Horse

They got me wrong,

Those long haired poets

hunting

Always for tidy metaphors,

There was no allegory

hiding

In the heat making me

itch,

Hadn't I carried my master

Grown fat on other's

pain

All that long, cruel day?

Dumb or not I know

That fine words change little,

Harm always gets done

As just out of shot

Icarus;

Burns his idealism against the

sun,

Dull people ignore tragedy;

Thinkers call it copy.

Look to the beam in your own
eye,

And let innocent horses

scratch

Their tired backs in peace.

March 2016