The stranger rode into town 
     on a bulletproof steed, 
     on a horse that could speak 
          and foretell future events, 
     on a horse that understood 
          the concept of mortality 
          although it could never die, 
     on a horse of great empathy 
          that would cry salty tears 
          for its master's tragic loss.
And yet, 
     somehow, 
          the townsfolk 
     only ever cared 
          about some crude 
     horse-shaped pile 
          of repurposed wooden planks.
Greg R. Fishbone
May 2020