Another winter month has passed by,time soon to step off the backs of winters horses,my hands are weary from holding the reins far too tight in anticipation of what lies beyond the bend,the legs far to jaded, straddling those that are glimpsed,felt in running heat of hot lathered horse hairs. Gas ball thunderbolts as the years pass by do not become any easier, to condense into manageable pieces.Every time someone utters " you get used to it "....the mind closes down, i am too tired to utter anything in reprisal.Word block is white wash on a crimson wall.
The crepuscular gloom is melancholy during such months.Even though i have known this for years,i never fail to climb up on the backs of these wild beasts come Autumn,just to see if the wild wind can be tamed in my own mind by the simple you get used to it.Perhaps if Winter wore a giant Prince Albert,now there is a thought indeed.