three bode horses

                rode toward

                                                        the bounds of our position

        the silohuetteshapes startled

        moved thunderously,

        rumbled a quickened sandsilence

        sar'ent said,

        “—ideal is irrelevant.

        they're comin' regardless.

        our blood will make mud of this sand,

        or their's.

        our eyes shadowed those

        nightly mares—warned,

        we turned, running

        the hill ascended

        was slight, but broken

        i stumbled, my story

        fell—nerves grainy         

        i stopped to save it

        blood running

        like black horses

        arteries opened

        a current, surging

        my passage would not end

        there, lost

        amidst sunburnt,

        granular mightbemud

Shine Ballard, the nescientnongrokker, currently creates and resides on this plane(t). @xShine14.