to where the seven horses run
seven sides of shelter from the spark
running, mullen-mouthed with tempers flared
crossing green apostles
to the green side of a metamorphic rock.
pythagorean rolls
it\'s third rack to the sun
from moon to ghost or predator
it has run it\'s seven cycles like a cat
and only purrs when the buzzards hunt for sex.
all seven fences break the mould of pith
it is orange. it is white. it is dry.
high on speed with tablets on their tongues
casting shadows on the eyebrows of the lame.
they are not tame, these lords we answer to;
they are the number ten
the number of the beast!