A pale horse—
old and slow moving,
with footfalls heavy as the Earth—
paces.

It has time
more than us
but we pay it no attention.

Not yet.
For we are frightened by the sight
of it's slack skin
hanging
as proof
that you either get old,
or you die young.

So we run like children
invisible here in the tall grass which stands high as our shoulders,
certain we can cheat death
by simply avoiding his gaze.