A horse loved and cared for,
A horse with more than a few scratches,
A horse that loves you
A horse that will always be there.
The one who stands tall,
A pure gray stallion,
With eyes as black as the night,
A tail and mane as dark gray as an incoming storm.
He stands guard over your bedroom,
Won’t let harm enter,
Many stories you produce,
But he knows the correct one.
As you grow old,
You see him less and less,
Until one day,
As you are showing your children your old toys,
You come across an attic box,
One lost to time.
You set your hands on the box,
Knowing what will come,
But you can’t open it yet,
So you wait.
Twelve years later,
You are gone like the wind,
They clean out your house,
As your grandchildren cry,
And they come across the same box,
A box that they have the courage to open,
A box that holds wonders.
Inside the box stands a beat up old horse,
But not with bruises of hurt,
But of care.
Your mother points out how ugly it is,
But you know that he is magical,
And that when you want to keep him.
A mane replaced with twine,
A solid name reproduced one more,