Straight Razor Sighs

A turnstiles melody exists in it's rotation / though without closing hours coupled with motionlessness the pegs can never harbor the energy necessary to trod and play / so be reminded that the neighs of your mare at twilight are not soul songs of the moment / but neglections of camps deployed in hindsight / warming fires not lit 'til first light / feedbags left to spoil /jaw bits you never took the time to learn needed nothing but soft hands and a calming tone rather you assumed rested easier in mouths if soaked in good intentions and oil /
your feet may be bare so that you will always know the lay of the land more intimately than civilians and us blacksmiths used to pounding around in knob nail shoes / but on the gradient of the hill of this country we have another word for your T(enuous)L(oathing)C(are) / your ardent oil concoctions you believed yourself was mead / and that is interrogation / in the case of the horses sleep deprived unknowledge which remains more than likely / possibly potential homicide /
but even an animals fish eyed view of you spanning the height and breadth of a corporate high rise / even an animal crippled with no eyes knows what words of meaning are worth when there are no hooves through it's mane when it lays down to die /
but you don't care for yourself / and a gypsy's trust is only as worthy as their heart remains still / which in the heat of the dark and moment is sporadic unusual predated and honestly / not that often //
I keep no work animals or pets / no will that I recognize as my own / but as a communal understanding of the difference between productive solitude generated spiraling outwardly and gaps left in the earth by straight razor sighs swung from the ankles of trunks en route / scouring the lay of land for creatures to grasp coddle and smother leaving nothing of an excuse but blood on the roots saying at least I tried / over grown vines choke out the forest and when there is no where left for the animals to hide / they'll find refuge at front of the claw foot furnace that warms my nape and ember scuffed pant legs / my back to the light / hammer on anvil / there are no words here / no intentions / just a steady beating heart / a path to travel and a home in sight