Because it’s painful, hurts,
because it confuses and secretes;
I stall the horses.
It’s difficult to ignore, turn from,
I saw a couple of miniature ponies
in a VW bus turning left for the 101.

I couldn’t say anything more,
I bled in the garden, yaked,
couldn’t stand to answer why.
My body was playing along with
the purging, afraid my horses
grew wheels.

No strong arm to turn into
to be quiet.
A window maiden,
hoping he hadn’t come
with terms and conditions.
Prince-conditions,
they come on horses.

I have high horses,
In the narrow ventures
of my minds forest.
I lean on them, stall them,
stand taller but still a ‘maybe.’
A prince means, me, a princess.

I’m not a princess, No.
I’m an Empress.
I have my own ponies and buses.
I masticated… and,
Smack.
Forgot.

Little Feather,
don’t pain for a prince.
Don’t hold your horses,
stall them in the winter.
Your Emperor could
arrive pulling ponies
from blue VW buses.