Ghosts being.

I see the painted horses
Mounting on the horizon
Of foreign seas
Beyond the begotten
True to source
They scatter
Like birds
Above the sunrise
Carrying
Shadows as they go
But what do I know?
That in fate
We'll belong to that
Which we cannot define
Some simple honor
Some mundane truth
Cast along a tepid sea
Of dishonest truth
Growing old
In the letters I write you
Truly, seeing my face
Weathered and passed
Made by the worried and morose
Tired beneath
My own strength
True to my own fate
Tied by the twine
That you tied yourself
With feeble, fragile hands
Carefully in contempt
Behind the shades
The shadows
And the hurt
I see the true face.