You look away with wet black eyes,
ears cocked, listening for a sign—
where to run next, for safety.
Rest for a while, you have been running long.

Blood drips down your stately mane.
You have shaken it off in streamers,
in a grotesque parade of pride—
you have galloped faster than Death this time.

Appaloosa, gallant Appaloosa,
to whom do you belong?
your bridle affixed,
your wounds untended.

Stealth survivor, no longer saddled,
without lead or rider.
Where will you return
after the calliope music fades?