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Muscles rippling, the stallion reared,
Hooves striking at his wary captors,
Approaching slowly, from all directions,
Holding ropes, guns, nooses,
Instruments to capture the wild thing,
And break him, bend him to their will.

The stallion dropped to all fours,
Darted to the right,
And they stopped him.
He backed up, only to be blocked.
He spun, frightened, as they encroached on him,
And shrieked, as they started to act,

Ropes falling across his shoulders,
Entwining his legs, around his neck,
As he tried to rear, and they pulled him to his knees,
He tried to rise, they pulled him down,
Floundering on his back, his legs flailing,
The wild thing captured, his dignity stripped,
The glory of his gallop forever gone,
The wild thing supressed beneath the future beast of burden.

He felt a sharp pain, and then the darkness sank,
As one of his captors sighed,
"tranquillised at last."
He was loaded, as if mere baggage,
Instead of the wild beast he was,
Deserving of respect.

He woke in a stall, labouring to his feet,

Shrieking, neighing,
Finding himself within four walls for the first time in his life.
He was broken, whipped, punished, rewarded,
Treated as if he were a mere 'thing',
Something to be trained out of bad habits.

He had a visitor one day, a small girl,
And her mother.
They looked at his dull flanks,
His clouded eyes,
The yellowing teeth,
And saw nothing of the glorious stallion,
that had been captured so many weeks ago.
Saw nothing of the glory of the wild thing.
Saw no gleaming flanks,
No rippling muscles,
No rebellious eyes.

The Little Girl turned to her Mother,
And sighed, disappointed,
"He'll do."