The little flying colt,
with his head up in the clouds,
wore hooves of lucky shoes
that could dodge between the shrouds.

He’d flit and flutter here
then he’d dart and dash away,
when caught red feathered there,
he would flee for better days.

The days were truly fine,
and for a time, nostalgic,
but something started rusting,
his joints became lethargic.

The other ponies laughed
at hobbled bones and frames,
their tears were not of sorrow
and they kowtowed to their names.

They did not remember,
he’s a pony, like themselves,
his rust would be their own
like his ribs of dusty shelves.



"We all become equally imperfect in due time."