Her name; an important presence

Polite, Reserved, and Proper:

The smokescreen of authentic identity

With cracks at the edges of an unceasing mold,

From which society has given her

A woman knows as much

 

But what separates the shell from genuinity?

Perhaps it is the whip of air that slices deep into the core,

Or maybe the quiet string of midnight noises

She seeks what she can grasp:

A lantern, A cloak, and the knob of the back door

Her thrill, mixed with caution, brings her toward the soft huffs of the moon-bathed stables

 

Hesitance, as her fingers brush the faded wooden door

Daylight binds her in a contract,

But the stars, here and now, give her permission

Lustrous and smooth,

Her eyes question the reality of it

This conspicuous, towering creature

Its eyes, bloodshot,

A sense of spark and fury

 

Her uneasiness melting away,

Like the cracks of her mask beginning to shatter

She stared into her own eyes,

Gazing at the beast,

Only a whispering tongue's length away

Binds, ropes, walls, muzzles, whips

Prison cells of perspective and expression

Freedom only found in the shining rays of the reflective moon,

But it doesn't last long

For she is asleep at a moment's notice,

Due to the undisturbed silence that hangs lightly in the air

 

With a swing, out it ran

The sounds of galloping and clacking against stone floated away,

And the silky, tousled mane whipped out of sight

Her heart swells with fulfillment,

larger than her sore and plump cheek the next morning

So, perhaps, all it takes is a beast to bring serenity to a stormy sky

And with the echoes of drum-like hooves ringing through her mind,

She smiles.