Clip Clop Oblivion

There are no horses here, no smooth 
ryegrass shiny in the sunlight. There is no 
soft here, only hard cuts of glass. Nothing 
that makes air lives in this underground cavern 
of neon, and yet, here are people still, assumed alive
with their black and white aesthetic, synthetic 
shoes and bags, zippers and sunglasses, leaning 
against light which could never glow green 
without gas and sand.
                                        There are no horses here, 
perhaps a train will come instead or a tube on its track, 
traveling through dark tunnels. Metal has its own echo, here. 
Waiting is a bent back, a dangling jacket. There are no horses 
here. In the distance, a horn cries out its warning: soon.