The Hollow Horses

What remains of the wild horses?

Charred remains of mangled faces

Stasis upon wooden legs

A burning smell from plastic ribs

Flesh ripped away from metal frame

Still standing there, stuck in time

Trotting, cantering, never running;

A frame in the sun, dying

And yet not noticing

Generations to come will look and say

"So this was a horse!"

They will be wrong.

These are not horses.

They are simply remains.