The reigns are worn. Overuse.
Where the skin was soft and folding,
Cuts, scabs and calluses.
I am used to this.
Experienced, seasoned even.
However, wear and tear is real.
The canvas and hide are strong,
Snapped violently by the wind. Resilient.
The ground giving up my pegs. Weakling.
I am about to be exposed.
Laid bare, visible. Seen.
One squinty eye my way are far too many.
These are my labors.
Not tiring, nor taxing. Trying.
We are a duality.
I am one and they, the other.
Not in competition for the interference of Fate.
Contant. Opposing the inevitable end.
Black Widow.
Outside my mind 