Tamed, they stand in isolation,
Pensive, despondent, and mute.
An occasional neigh, a snort,
The sound of a questioning hoof,
"What now?", one stomps once, then stops.
They stand noble, inert, complete,
Like helium, like xenon, like fear,
Consumable, chemical packages,
Like a scream at the top of your throat,
Like a tear full of passion, ready to fall.
And then and there comes the storm:
A lightening bolt, a thundering whip across the sky,
A neigh, a teardrop, a squeal, a scream,
The deafening sound of stomping hooves.
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