Youth And Conquest

I found the place
That old men, blind
And drawing horses
To their death, search for
With supple skin on
Their minds and dark
Socks pulled to their knees.
Something shoved me in
Ten inches, ten feet
Split open and drowning.
Drowning in dimensions
Of envious youth,
Washing over only those
Who turn their backs
On the gods of the past.
How abandoning,
How simple and clean,
The way broken things
Make weapons of war,
And war itself
Is a daily routine.
Those of us who survive
With our socks to our knees,
Stretch forward in time
And back into pain.