Death Ride

Strike hard the cold grey steel
upon the dark shale road.
Firestrike, spark lightening thrown off
from heavy hooves.
The masked, blood stained figure holds
tight: his pursuers, now just in earshot
press forth, retreat not there, only forward.
A gallows pole awaits,
tight neck-tie of flax and hemp,
a jolly gig to perform, if this night
his hounders, outrun him just this once.
Cold ache the arms do burn.
The stench of blood soaked sweat burns deep,
down deep in his breathless lungs,
no falter from his weary steed,
the angry cries slowly subside to sighs
the death ride is nearly won.