The oberration of cullers of dreamed horses

There a long time ago before any of us were here
there was a dream that planted our hunting and cultivation
on the backs of oberrant horses seizing along the fortitude
of scapegoat mountains along a crest of envy and patrimony

now that you are older you hear the tune that died
in their shoes desperation of royal liberal arts camouflaged
sacrosanct profusions of fire and rest, digging away, in a spell
humans wearing horseshoes, not a sign of infection
or spooling radiance along the past-wind cultured grass
the peeling gas mask of arch-able reprisal not feathered in wind

just ecosystems of borders in time, wearing wigs of statues
like radial clocks dismissive of the fallout where stoneware
leaves too many smaller demons defeated and left in the desert
on the way to short pastures, on the way to clean surfaces