To Where The Seven Horses Run

to where the seven horses run

seven sides of shelter from the mark

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;