Think about the year ahead:
with patience the horse can be trained,
but will it allow itself to be lead?
The glass once red, opaque.
I drink to decide, allow more slack,
but the smile reflected in the glass looks fake.
I don’t have the reigns.
Where we head at rampant gait,
I misread, so I grip the barrel filled with dread.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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