Plodding herd,
trudging higher through muddy terrain,
filthy and hopeless.
Once they were clean.
They were so very fast,
Electric
Dashing double-time.
45º and climbing, still
the herd was relentless.
No mountaintop,
no roadblock,
no horizon in sight,
unto the arms of Helios they did fly.
Though fighting insolation
with each landing of hoof,
yet they were the corona
that moved the world.

“Naphtha, oh Naphtha”
cries the rancher
whose herd will not return.
Though it was he that set them forth
with prod and combustible remains.
Sight now obscured with muck
plodding ever forward
slower and heavier,
and the abyss,
hidden for a century,
is approaching.
The herd cannot stop.
Kinetic pride driving them,
though muscles strain
and burdens grow
still they push forward
up to the edge and over
and with them they carry
the light
the spirit
the home and the hearth
into the darkness.




Or:


Plodding herd, trudging
Ever higher through muddy terrain, and the
Abyss is approaching.
Kinetic pride driving them
Onward, forward
Into the darkness.
Light left behind
In pursuit of Helios.
Springing forth like corona,
The sword of God
Has swung.
Entropy envelopes and
Devours, though once they had
Energy to move the world.
Slower the hoofs move,
The herd stumbling into the
Ravine of negritude.
Unable now to heed the
Call of the rancher who set them loose.
They cannot stop, they cannot hear, and
Into the abyss they plummet.
Only the words of the forsaken remain:
Naptha, oh Naptha!