Riding the White Horse

Steve Pearson Poetry

The blood will run
Upon the line
Beneath a sallow skin
Laced with the low
Of ill design
And hope of high therein
The prison is made
With its lie
For transient esprit
Comes bright thought
And golden eye
Upon a warm forgiving sea
Thence the fall and
Sorrowed ire
A self struck livid cell
The blood runs cold
The soul afire
‘neath a sick unbidden spell
Doomed to repeat
Day upon day
’till maybe the day will come
The pale end of it all
A price to pay
Where the light of a life is undone

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