Stallion of the Mores

Ripples startle the gentle mire.

A shadow glides beneath the murk,

Rancid bubbles burst fourth.

All is quiet, like a catacomb sealed in stone

All is desolate, like the wind creeping through a cemetery field.

The stallion of the mores turns in restless slumber,

Click, click, click;

The shifting of bone against bare bone.

Splash, gurgle, swoosh;

Fish scatter from his terrible wake.

A thick grey mane is twisting;

His eyes gleam hungry red;

Pale, bloodless flesh skates just below the surface.

Black hooves gallop along the mucky bottom.

At last the stallion emerges,

Skin hangs from his atrophied head;

Lips are thin and teeth the color of bile.

He shakes himself, flinging water from his accursed pelt.

The misty bog wraps about his decomposing form.
Distorted beneath dappled moon light the stallion emerges once more,

A gallant horse with strong legs and pure white coat gallops out of the fog,

Into the night.