Illusion Is False Control Poem by James McLain

My imaginary friend,
used to ride it,
on a two teamed paired, hay wagon.
Muscles do strain,
pulling up reins,
to let up push down,
is the break in a well.
One night, after arriving back at her ranch, hot sweaty.
My friend asked, why do you look at it that way?
What other way, can it see?
It is a false since of grain, it labors and strains for
control of the horses and hay! ..
How is it sir: ?
Why have you come to say that? ..It watches you drive,
every night.
The horses are blind, across and along,
the same dusty trail for going on nigh, seven years,
yea, it recons so.
They have found there way back, many a night, all by
a doves, lonesomes trail.