The Dark Horse of Manila

By T. Mina

Under the passageways of neglect and forgetfulness

Is an underlying complaint

Of everything else underneath

She speaks the language of funeral horses

Mistaken for white horses* are horses with large horns 

Driving away for a funeral for two

Time is not of the essence; essence is like the bottles she sells as wares

Time is not a measurement; Time is like rivers running dry and filling up again in December

Maps are just as essential; they are also as deceptive

Better trust your senses

Rather than your stepsister;

Electrical wires are a thing of the past.

Things made of twine, charcoal, saddle leather and rose quartz

These things make up the City.

Never again will they cross paths.

They will only see a cartoon version of each other on Pub Posters

A City where people go on foot.

Where you hold out your hands and receive something;

Mountains can no longer be scaled by ladders;

They must be climbed by ropes.

In three hours, your life will last.

In three more minutes, your life will start.