A wounded bull,
Exposed heart,
Cries out in his morning wake.
Blood pools in the shadow of his past.
A bowed head,
Panting softly in humility,
Fails to see the rising sun.
Warming rays gently caress his burdened back
A new life,
Beckons him to stand.
Unaware,
The balm has been applied.
The healing has begun.
Aquila Scott
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