Red plains spread out toward the distance
ever reflecting the fire of a setting sun
as the bleeding grasses whisper and sway
rolling on and on until they meet the sky.
 
And the eyes of the horses crackle with
flames as their hooves strike embers
that glow in thickening air while hopeless
moans rise past their flickering ears.
 
The whish and the why
and the whish and the why.
 
Arms reach up among flowing stems
grasping for something unknown
and unnamed as fingers are torn free with
a toss of the head and shake of the mane.
 
Son of battle once fed these
mares the bodies of those seeking
refuge under his roof by filling
their bellies and feeding the tombs.
 
The whish and the why
and the whish and the why.
 
Teeth chomp down causing sparks to fly
as mouthfuls of families are swallowed
down to mingle the remnants of those
seeking death and those seeking to survive.

None endeavor to find themselves here
feeding the horses on the endless plains that have
never known a rider or the feel of a saddle
just left forever grazing and flipping their tails.
 
The whish and the why
and the whish and the why.
 
-- by Steve McKennon, 05 March 2015