My mind is at a gallop in a
runaway herd of horses,
a stampede through the middle
of town
having lured my unhitched
steed along with them.
I leap into the saddle, seize
the reins,
halt my mount at the edge of
town
as the wild herd disappears
in a cloud of dust.
One day, You promise, my old
horse
will never leave the barn,
(innumerable lifetimes from
now)
whittled down to rawhide and
bones.
In the meantime my
occupation,
my devotion, is to You, the
holy part of me,
the true part, working
patiently
to rope, break and hobble the
feral steed.
O child of God, you are a
child also
of Sunday school mornings and
Saturday matinees.
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