Dead horses don't talk, however much you beat them.
They take you downtown for a stroll, risen by necromantic powers.
Their eyes do rot, and liquefy and hang loosely from their sockets.
Their flanks are bared down to the bone and dogs jump up to tear them.
The flesh that hangs there limply is cold, yet they just keep on strolling.
Dead horses do not talk.
Around and round they do take you for a stroll, dead horses from their slumber risen.
Flailed to death they toil away, carrying memories; trinkets.
The horses pass through our deserted streets, not talking, not making a sound.
Who knows why and whither.
Dead horses do not talk, they walk away and wither.
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