Note to Self

I rode a horse named Fantasy
Into a vast
High desert
Snow to the west
Sage behind me
Littered with ancient campfires
And faces of the lost within.

Days stream together
Riding Fantasy.
You lose track of time.
What does it matter
That Sunday feels like
Wednesday?

Fantasy is a good horse
Broke to the saddle
And takes her head
Keeping south of the storms.

But Fantasy never looks back
Wondering if I’m well
Or there at all.
Nothing matters to Fantasy
Except she has food
At day’s end.
If you fail to feed Fantasy
She gets testy.

She will kick you to death
And leave your carcass to the
Ever-present vultures
Circling overhead
Waiting for carrion.

Note to self:
Never ride a horse that never looks back.