He has tamed a wild horse.
“Patience is a virtue of the dead.”Needle, thread,
filling empty gap
in the chest.
Tailor of the reins
swaying wild foal,
master equestrian stance,
a castellan of all that’s undisclosed,
keys swinging around the solid belt.
The voice of reason
penetrating pensive pacing head,
looking further in the distance.
Patience is a virtue of the dead,
but we wait
submerged in the water,
collecting precious dime
waiting for the moment
to grow the wings of fate,
through the gasping gills.
Truth is biased in each mind,
but we hold the rope together,
swinging higher with each pull.
Note escaping from the pocket
landing on the bed of wild roses,
from this note, we paint a soul,
united but as well divided,
together in the dreams and wishes
separated in ideas and expression.