They ride this beast
through unending days,
feed it their hopes and fears
like acorns from the lowest branches.
It grunts beneath the weight
of their burdens,
a saddle of meat
in this butcher’s yard called life,
in search of meadows long-forgotten,
a world in verdant green
beyond the madness of a world unseen,
waiting to be cured its rotting flesh.
(c) Darren Hawbrook
I just stumbled on this in my notebook from a recent writer’s workshop. The brief was to come up with a poem or prose from two randomly selected prompt cards. For this I had:
2) The cut of meat on the back of an animal or the item used to remain seated upon.