Those horses I rode
I was young
younger than today
were made of clay
ran in circles
to the music of my world.

Stallions of my mind
with nostrils flaring
invisible manes
clutched in my memory
riding high plains
of consciousness.

Thoroughbreds of thought
reaching for a gold ring
a child centrifuge
a smile for no mother
a wave for no father
the carousel goes round and round.