HORSE’S POV:

We are the same, you know, both perfectly confined.

I’m a branded soul, and so, I recognize my kind.

We’re judged by beauty, youthful years, status, and horsepower.

We both look classy, flashy, racing, sprinting to that highest tower.

You watch my hooves break ground like you are high on meth.

And when I cross the line (yes, I’m the fastest), you gawk with bated breath.

You bet on me, of course you do, and then you kill me slow.

And all those pretty ornaments we wear are just for show.

You think you own me? Maybe. But I own you, too.

If I don’t make you money, turn you into a loser, what will you do?

We’re both just strangely melancholic notes in the same sad song.

Blue — loneliness, red — lust, a hymn to all that’s sad and wrong.

Oh, how I wish I had a choice not to cross that wretched line.

To stomp the grass, to feel the wind, and run because that choice is mine.

I hear it now, that striking hymn: "La vita bella, la vita sore,"

The finest, most amusing whisper: “Ornatus servus est servus, amore.”

On the subject of collective labor.