Fugitive - Poem by Alexander Garr
The landscape speeds past as
I run from my pursuers.
The pounding of the horse’s hooves
Thunder against the hard-packed earth,
Kicking up dust in its wake.
I glance over my shoulder
And see a pair of Golden eyes through the trees
That I know is the lanterns held by my pursuers.
Faintly, I see the Black silhouettes of the riders
Against the stark White of the Moon.
I turn back around—
The sound of wood on skin
Seems to resonate through the forest.
I lurch in my saddle,
Reeling away from the unexpected branch.
But then comes another right behind the first,
A forest of groping hands trying to pull me from my saddle.
I swat at the branches with one hand
While desperately trying to hold on to the reins with the other.
I can hear the clop clop of the pursuers now,
I want to look back but can’t,
Or else the trees’ hands will have me in their grasp.
But the pursuers are riding hunting horses bred to run,
While I have a young filly now well-lathered.
The lead man gallops up and takes the reins from my hands
And I know it’s over.
Now I’ll be brought back to the home I left,
To live a life that I did not choose.
Now I will never be able to leave again.
Now I will be watched for the rest of forever.
I guess I should have seen this coming.
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