Man And Horse

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The horse galloped on, with a man on her back.
The reins were held tightly, the stirrups slack.
With aching muscles of both horse and man
The filly galloped onwards, it ran and ran!
Pain travelled upwards through his legs and back.
His life was being stretched on a bristling rack.

Pain, pain a stinging pain.
One that will stay, always remain.
No rest, no reprieve.
Only one choice; he chose it…..to leave!

The horse galloped on, the man still on her back,
The air was heavy, his eyes were black.
A broken heart inside him bled
And stained his clothing in a crimson red.
Running, running, running away, no rest all night nor through the day.
A curse had fallen, he’s under its spell. No one to listen, no one to tell!

Pain, pain a stinging pain.
One that will stay, always remain.
No rest, no reprieve.
Only one choice; he chose it……to leave!

The horse finally stopped, it was her will to survive.
The crestfallen man had withered and died.
Love caused his sickness, it ate and ate.
Nothing could stop it, nothing could satiate.
The filly reared, stamping hard on the ground
Love had left her saddle without a sound!

Pain, pain a stinging pain.
One that will stay, always remain.
Once a love has left it can not be retrieved,
Live love, love love, hold it tight never let it leave.

© 2015, Danny Kemp. All rights reserved.

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About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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