The White Horse
She follows the white horse
Towards a swirling sunset.
Vibrant reds and oranges drip onto a
Field of blazing wheat.
She reaches through
Layers of vegetation and touches
The flowing strands of thick hair
That stream from his tail, his mane.
She can almost feel the moist breath
Blowing though his nostrils,
Almost hear the thunderous power
Of his strong stride.
The phone rings.
Her world shudders, lines dissolve.
She walks out of her painting,
Puts down the paint brush,
Touches the back of her horse
with her fingertip
Then lets the white paint dry as
She walks outside to greet
A new day.
I saw a man hold
A picture of a
So innocent, so abused.
I love you, the man choked out.
He was so sorry for banishing the
Memories of his early life,
For silencing the voice of his childhood,
An innocence killed by
Breached borders and forbidden touch.
But the weight of memory dragged him down and
That small voice begged to be heard, to be loved.
One day he was able to listen,
To bring out that little boy and
Look upon him with love and compassion.
I am no longer a victim, he said.
I am complete.
I look around at all
The damaged people,
Hurting others because
They are afraid to cut themselves on
Jagged memories. So
They seal their ears and nurture a stone heart.
And I wonder,
Is it that easy?
Can the world be healed,
heart by heart,
By loving our inner child?
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