three bode horses
                                    rode toward
                                                             the bounds of our position

the silohuetteshapes startled
moved thunderously,
rumbled a quickened sandsilence
sar'ent said,
“—ideal is irrelevant.
they're comin' regardless.
our blood will make mud of this sand,
or their's.”
our eyes shadowed those
nightly mares—warned,
we turned, running
the hill ascended
was slight, but broken
i stumbled, my story
fell—nerves grainy
i stopped to save it
blood running
like black horses
arteries opened
a current, surging
my passage would not end
there, lost
amidst sunburnt,
granular mightbemud

Shine Ballard, the nescientnongrokker, currently creates and resides on this plane(t).