Losing It

A good prayer is a lost one.

 

                Circled by fire, the warrior sees godhead in the hilt of his broken sword.

                Sharks incoming, the fisherman feels windhorse in the gale whipping his face.

                Sitting alone, I hear love echo in the recess of my emptiness.

 

It goes ‘neigh.’ In extreme circumstances, horses will run until they drop.

 

                His body dying, Beowulf takes another stab at the dragon.

                There is no catch; the old man lifts the oar out of the oarlock.

                Heartbreak is an occupational hazard.

 

This kind of horse-power comes from a busted battery.

               

                Pissing himself, Wiglaf stays by his doomed king’s side while the brave men flee.

                Despite his father, the little boy still visits the old man with bad luck.

                Prometheus bleeds sulfuric acid and the eagle burns its tongue.

 

A good poem is…

Shit I lost it.

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