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Nightmare with Guts

She woke up in a pasture,

outside her protective tall walls.

Topped with razor wire,

couldn't keep out the calls.

Wolves howling in the distance,

but clearly coming her way.

She contemplated her options,

she was sure she couldn't stay.

As an Olympian jumper,

she thought about the top.

Wasn't sure she could make it,

couldn't do the Fosbury Flop.

Had cleared that height before,

but the razor wire was more,

with the cuts that it would score,

might match what wolves tore.

She planned her route carefully,

and started out with a slow trot.

Away from the wall just far enough,

to give it all that she's got.

Running with all of her might,

with the moon shining on the wall,

there was no turning back now,

she launched, giving it her all.

She didn't feel the blade rip,

cleared and prepared to land.

Her adrenaline eliminated pain,

but her death was close at hand.

From within the gut pile,

bloody little head uncovered.

A filly rose on shaky legs,

the farmer soon discovered.

Copyright 2022 © Ronald W. Hull

11/10/22

You can read and print this poem at my website here.