Old Flames XIII: For The Horses That Ride Into Glory

From the battlefront, it's easy to count the stars. Many nights, it will be the last thing you consider beautiful. Pop the tent, pop a beer and wrestle yourself to the ground for the spectacular disorder that is humanity. After the violence cleans out all veins and arteries dirtied with old blood, we shall drain ourselves here, out in the field, where makeshift graves are solitude and rest. We are old, but we are tired and angry. We are hurt, buried alive within ourselves. Our bones creak and our muscles hiss, like that of a vintage radiator. We can remember the history of cars, but we don't know why we find ourselves scrapped from the scrap pile. We read the good book in motels in between fits and we kept our homes bare, for who knows when we would join the war effort again? Here we are at breakneck speed, sure of the impact, confident in free will. Surely, we are not to go to bed without knives, fiends and friends? What kind of dinner party would that be?