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The End of a Sentence

 
 
or him, it seemed like being tied
To wild horses
And dragged over rocky soil
Not even sand to soothe
The rhythmless cadence of that brutal task
The speed was breathtaking

Imprisoned, he flew through the cinders
Choking down the dry dust of spoilt dreams
Catching an occasional stiff kick
From a spirited hoof
At first he bruised
Then bled
And finally wept through the fury of it all

The pace, it mounted
Faster, faster racing on
'Til now...
His eyes, dull as windswept panes
Clear just enough to catch a glimpse
Of hands tightly wrapped upon the leathers
Fingers neatly clamped upon the reins
Steeds scattered off except for two

Resting, resting, done with ruin
Done with jesting, just remain
Lead us, lead us to the temple
Misty mountain, soft with rain

Speak no longer of the Sentence
Policies are making fools
Of the teachers in the classrooms
At the overcrowded schools
 
© Chris Maier 2003