By: Darrelyn L. Tutt

The heel that wore the spur,
It brought such pain.
Indulging its passion,
Digging itself into the tender flesh.
Gorging on fragments of vulnerability,
Gouging and ripping into permanent scars ...
Treading the wounds of previous spurs.
The enjoyment of perverse gratification,
The employment of predatorial skill,
Penetrating and pulsating,
Branding the soul ... without conscience.
The intoxified breath of the rider indebted to singular self-possessed passions,
Consumed by an insatiable undenied appetite.
Tightening the reins,
Burying the spurs,
Sharper and sharper,
Piercing and probing,
Deeper and deeper.
And then ... it's over.
In an instant and finally forever,
The heel is struck ...
Man's spur no more.
The "Thoroughbred Keeper" is no idle sleeper;
He knows His own.
The ride will end,
The Keeper defend,
And lead to pastures ...
Of His own.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
Psalm 23:2-3