This is the very first poem I wrote, or at least started many moons ago, 40 years to be exact. I finished it two years ago. Talk about words lost in time. It was to be published in an Anthology by Cader Publishing but they wanted me to pay for a copy. I truly believe that if someone is to make money off my work or the work of others they should, at least, receive a free copy. I never really cared for the poem so why would they want to publish it anyway? I'll let you decide for yourselves and please be honest. I can take the criticism.

In the valley cold and still,
lies a body and a chill.
Through the night I hear a shriek,
carried across meadow and creek.

I see the leaves… I hear them toss…
There’s the shadow of a horse.
A man sits tall upon his back,
fifteen hands high, for those who track.

The specter seems to hold his ground,
showing no care that I’m around.
My presence not of its concern,
I’m not the source for which it yearns.

The apparition is drawing near,
my chest is beating with untold fear.
The need to find what must be found,
stands very clear and most profound.

The eerie closeness of this ghost,
has only shown what it wants most.
On the shoulders of he most dead,
is missing nothing but a head.

The phantom left as quickly came,
I felt unease to sense the pain.
A soul who wanders to this day,
the constant wailing won’t go away.

The will to find that missing part,
has plagued the horseman from the start.
He’ll never rest until it’s found,
a confrontation will astound.