07-14-2018, 03:24 PM
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane; He doesn’t know if he has a good answer to the man’s question. He came here – came back – because it’s the only place he really knows, the only thing that feels remotely like home. There have been other homes – once, so long ago, it was the desert (so briefly, that, he does not recall specifics but only the warmth of sahara-hot sun on his back), and then the meadow, and another place, a nameless land, and back here, and so on and so on – And back. And back. Always back. It doesn’t feel like home, not really. Just a place his hooves know. A place that is familiar and rife with memories – some of which he recalls. Some of which he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. “I’ve lived here, off and on,” he says, “I seem to keep finding myself back here.” Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. |