Even a stallion knows. The impossibly muscled frame eventually pulls back from a sprint. To a gallop. Nostrils flaring wide, like the exhuast on a dragster engine rumbling, shaking, spitting out exhaust. Head snapping one way, then the other, then raised high. The stallion stops and waits for only you. Majestic. Regal. Powerful. Long legs kicking at the earth, as if to make its physical and metaphorical stand. You climb onto the stallion. Feel the power. Become the power. Ride the stallion, confident and caustic, out to the battlefield. Raise your gaze; lift your head high. Charge into the unknown with belligerent assurance that victory is but on the other side. Live your life as the stallion does. With controlled violent abandon. With a fierceness that mocks mere mortals, and leaves them in its wake.
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