pale birch trees stand tall
long shadows seep into night
lumberjacks slumber

You don't have to be an eagle -
to see the white stallion in a field
of ponies - nor do I ever feel
like I was the person riding it,
like all of that power was mine -
to command.

But I was George Custer to your
finely edged arrow tips -
I was an easy target and I let myself
get beaten and bruised,
knocked from my mount -
Colliding with every single piece
of stone on the ground.

Cuts, scars, grazes, bruises -
But these stones do break bones,
and these sticks puncture my chest -
Yet this is a mere kiss on the cheek
to the words that cut me so, so deep.

I fell so hard into a bottomless pit
even the ocean hadn't explored
this washed out chest, praying to find
a person who's soul is just as kind.

Now I sit day by day - watching the stallion
in the fields, in all its glory, inside a story,
that I paint inside my proudest dreams -
getting just that little closer to what was,
I look forward to the days approaching -
for the day I get back on my stallion.

And to ride with you - in all of our glory -
inside our story - that we will paint
as we fade into the fields of our dreams.

I lie in every word I speak
But in no word
I write.

- p. winter