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The Prancer

The Prancer
By Thelittlestrings on 12/25/2010
Viewed: 211
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The black filly prances among the moors,
With all flirtatious design hooves weave,
The finest queen among whores,
Now tied down we cannot leave.

The windows to her animal soul,
Encased in fine hair, shooting outward,
Open and close at her eyes'' goal,
The endless swirling ever inward.

Up the steps do we trip,
Stumbling, blind, to our knees,
Bare not her glorious lip,
And we shall breath with ease.

Her mane flows so fluid in the air,
The rays of pale light dissected,
Men give the caution of beware,
For they cry, utterly deflected.

In glorious repetition so round,
She plays always smart,
Ever to be validated by that sound,
That it is merely Art.

© By Thelittlestrings On 12/25/2010 7:09:26 PM
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