Torn Apart

The whip left scars.

It left shredded flesh,
torn apart,
by the embedded lash,
closed and hardened.

One hoof after the other.

Pull the cart,
pull the sled,
‘neath sun and stars,
until you are dead.

Oh, the wagon goes west…

I will make it.

If I pull very hard
and try my best
to please the lasher
that tears my flesh.

©️ Obol, 2019.

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