I first saw you in the starting gate, underfed and overlooked
The currency of the blasphemers and reprobate staked all around, but none on you
You surged from the field and breezed by the void, they all stared at firebrand and Logos
You kept working
I first saw the tracks of your gospel shoes in the snow, the splashing of ancient mud and myth
Thoroughbreds tried to keep stride, but you run with no one
The smog of nations, the desolation of their effort, the chatter of blackbirds from their caves
You kept working
The mob collapsed around itself, the earth shivered, history trips into another generation
You kept working
You’re the Holy Ghost workhorse and I need you like the watchmen need the morning
Keep on working and working and working
You’re the Holy Ghost workhorse and I need you like the morning needs the sun
Keep on working and working and working in me
*painting titled White Horse by Boris Correa
