The Black Horse Inn

 



This town, these antiques,
stampeding like ebony stallions
through time itself,

Riding high, steadfast
on the backs of broken novella,
their bindings, yellow, older than the soul.

In flecks of near-nausea
there’s tunnel vision, and branches
that should have died centuries before.

The road to ruin, plunder,
and unresolved mythos,
is lain, brick by brick, beginning to end.