The Wooden Horse
Its pearly eyes gaze through the window.
It only hears the toothed sunlight grind leaves.
They drift to the ground like the winds’ ears.
Dizzy, blindfolded by children,
The horse swirls around, carried by a somnambulist.
“If this is dreaming, don’t let me stop.”
From its wooden muscles
Oozes a crooked smile,
Laughter choked by children.
Time tocks out of its darkness
Then it surfaces, the shriveled face:
“No, no, it’s not like this.”
Does not open its dumb mouth.