Chariots of the Sun

Perhaps prenatal
the vortex
of fate closes
his hands
over our mouth.

Guided reins
the horses
of our minds.
Enclosed by
the peripheral
Until the chargers
triumphal whinny.

Strangers coast
the arrows
in the skies.

Bisect the
horrors and
honorific plumpness.

The congested
landscape ingests
galloping forces.

Grasping hand
closes to a stop
the lifeforce
of its suggestion.