In his stable Locked,
he longs for those golden fields,
To dry the saddle
sweat in the warm air,
Chomping at the bit,
my bridle he does yield,
Longs for the summer
breeze sifting through his hair,
Has escaped many
times I fear he’ll never learn,
Bloody legs, lost
breath, and a broken soul,
A dead sprint across
the hills no thought of his return,
In my absence he
proves, an absence of control,
I have the right mind
to put him away for life,
It’s hard for me to
see the scars on his legs and side,
His spirit
overwhelming it’s hard to bear strife,
I must admit we both
enjoy the ride,
I hope to see the
countryside where we ride as one,
But how many times
can he break before he comes undone?
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