Drawn forth—
from deep within
your lungs
—breath—
billows out of your cauldrons—
kissing the cool morning haze
and
drifting off into the horizon.

Muscles flexed,
standing tall.
Chest out—still—
on the precipice of
a new assignment.

Stripes run down
the top of your nose—
Marking your head.
War-paint—
ready for battle,
Battle-hardened.

Quadrupled cannons,
Drawn forth—at the ready
Standing to attention—
await your
direction.

Fetlocks,
spring-loaded,
ever-ready to
absorb all
of the impact
of your blows.

Feet—
shod,
pinned perfectly in
place.
No time—for pleasantries.


© Daniel Schwamm, All Rights Reserved, 2015.


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