The horse races time, muscles carving air,
while the steam engine bellows its iron lungs,
wheels clattering like a heartbeat against rails.
Fields of gold stretch open, unending horizon.
The rider leans forward, wind in their teeth,
reins taut as if holding onto history’s edge.
The prairie hums beneath hooves and metal,
a song of velocity sung in two keys.
Black smoke tangles with the open blue sky,
shadowing the plains with echoes of thunder.
Windblown mane and coal clouds blur together,
each moving forward, chasing something ephemeral.
The land remembers: hoofprints, tracks, whispers.
Now, those melodies are caught in fences,
pastures replaced by lawns trimmed uniformly.
The echoes dissolve in the hiss of sprinklers.
Where steel once met courage under flesh,
asphalt highways sprawl, humming electric songs.
The horses sleep in photographs; the trains rust quietly,
as a new kind of race leaves dust behind.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 6th, 2026 03:18
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson), Syd, sorenbarrett, ms.divine
Offline)
Comments3
What once was and what now is, great write and a fav
Thank You Norman
I really enjoyed this write Gray. Such brilliant descriptions and imagery. "Muscles carving air" being one of my favourites.
- Syd 🍄
Thank Syd for sharing your feedback
Beautiful my friend so well imaged it falls close to my heart having seen the advancement of all those things. Long gone by the time of my birth on this continent I saw on a Southern continent in my youth as well as the racing horses alongside. You have touched a ghost rider in my memory my friend and it deserves a fave
Thank You Soren
My pleasure
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