By Paul O’Malley
They cut the hooves off of me and
Sent me off on a merciless gallop,
Scurrying across the Burren
Or some tragic pointed land mass.
No windows, only curtains.
No chances, only burdens.
Indeed, no chance for no young soul
To stand up and be so bold.
Only the cold, cold grip
Of an unwelcome chokehold.