THE WILD HORSE

He was never meant for halters,

Not for fences, not for fields.

The wind was stitched into his muscles,

The sky was something he could feel.

Born under thunder,

Raised by stone,

He learned to stand

Entirely alone.

No herd to follow,

No trail to trust—

Only the hunger

To move because he must.

No saddle, no name, no tethered will,

The wild horse runs beyond the hill.

Through canyon’s throat and thunder’s cry,

He draws the shape of freedom’s sky.

Eyes like storms and hooves like drums,

He answers only when the wild wind hums.

Man has tried with rope and rein—

But he’s not built to bear the chain.

He was born beneath a silver moon,

To no one’s song, to no one’s tune.

The earth was cracked, the sky was dry,

But still he kicked, and still he tried.

The herd ran fast—he ran alone,

His heart a beat of blood and bone.

No pasture green, no stable warm,

Just open fields and gathering storm.

They called him ghost, they called him myth,

Too fast to catch, too fierce to myth.

Old cowboys spoke with reverent tone:

“You don’t break him. You leave him alone.”

One tried once—with whip and steel.

They found him thrown, unable to feel.

Not the horse—no, he still flew.

But the man had learned what freedom knew.

The wild horse drinks from mountain streams

That only show themselves in dreams.

He runs on cliffs no hoof should find,

With fire burning in his mind.

He doesn’t wait, he doesn’t rest—

His compass lives inside his chest.

He follows wind. He chases stars.

He keeps his soul behind his scars.

He’s seen the fence. He’s smelled the rope.

He’s walked the edge of human hope.

He’s heard the songs that promise care,

But freedom dies in stabled air.

They build the barn. They pave the field.

But what is caught will always yield.

And he was not born to bend or stay—

He was born to tear the dusk away.

The wild horse gallops through the dusk,

His breath is fire, his mane is musk.

He leaves no trail but shattered leaves,

And thunder where the forest breathes.

He dances where the lightning falls,

He answers when the silence calls.

No bridle fits, no master stays—

He’s written in the ancient ways.

Sometimes, someone sees him near—

A shimmer, close, then not so clear.

By river bend or mountain face,

A blur, a shape, a fleeting grace.

But when they call, he doesn’t come.

He turns his head and starts to run.

And all they get is hoofbeat song—

A whisper saying: “You don't belong.”

He’s older now, but still unbent.

He carries storms where others went.

A thousand miles beneath his skin—

And not one inch he gave to them.

He watched the world trade time for speed.

He watched men burn for things they need.

He saw the saddles made from pride—

And every rider who had lied.

The wild horse stands at ridge’s edge,

Wind like arrows at the ledge.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bow.

He only lives in here and now.

A bolt of dusk. A blaze of black.

He doesn't run—he just comes back.

To where no maps and roads can go,

To where the old winds rise and blow.

So if you see him, let him be.

Don't chase the fire meant to be free.

Just watch him pass with quiet grace,

And know that freedom has a face.

He is not yours, nor is he mine.

He is a breath outside of time.

He is the truth without remorse—

He is the wild, the wild horse.