The Dance of the Ghost Horse
He prances in the dark, his milky, white coat glistening in the moonlight,
He dances to the swirling notes of the crickets and wolves howling to the moon.
He is a fable; a myth.
But he's not to me.
He is real.
I've seen him.
He has a silver mane, with flowers and ivy intertwined in his long, iridescent tassels.
And his tail in braided with strawberry blossoms.
His muscular coat was lustrous in the orb of night,
And glimmered as he lifted himself into the chilled breeze.
He nickered to the sky,
And threw his head up to the light,
And neighed and nickered unceasingly.
He is called the Ghost Horse.
I have seen him-I know he is real.
He presents himself only to the true of heart,
And is only visible on the night of the full moon.
He is a symbol of the pure.
He is the Ghost Horse.
Very apt song title, I will now have that tune in my head for the day, gtreat words as well.