Darkhorse

It’s apparent in small circles

less so in large crowds

how strung out and dull

I have become,

like Major Tom, a junkie.

I twist in no wind contorted,

beating the ground

like some foul raging bull stampeding;

once in a pond thinking of butterflies,

now I chase the sparrow through purple skies.

Vomiting thunder,

my heart has broken ten thousand times

for no one,

but for her only once

and that is never enough.

I've closed my eyes on my sanity

returning instead to the surface of Mars,

the God of War

and made a mark;

filled my mouth with red sand

and shouted Bowie songs until my teeth bled.

Traveling near the speed of sound

touching the realization that it is I

who is alien to my self.

That it is I who is the Darkhorse.