There are horses made of shadows,

winged with the breadth of nightmares,

that poets fly over the chasm of the void.

I see them in the peripheral

as I try to capture meaning from inspiration,

their eyes wild, their nostril red with the effort

of running after what is real.

Sometimes, when I just don’t get it,

I ride one beyond what can be known.

I lasso it with the silver string of my soul,

mount up, and let it leap.

_Whoosh_, like a torrent of night wind,

I land, rustling what is there,

looking for the light.