Riding numb on a horse with no mane

I drove down the highway looking in the pouring rain.
Any shelter to drain my pain.
Walked into a small bar and emptied my third mug to the dregs.
It was then she walked in, riding on a horse with no legs.
She zeroed in on me, sat down opposite, said her name was Meg.
Instinctively I made up Greg.
A body could see Meg had done some mileage.
A hard valley plunged down her cleavage.
A pair of pain junkies and no doubt among lifeís flunkies.
The truth was I no longer crossed deserts nor seas,
both were very unforgiving.
In their nature was no giving to the living.
By now everyone had fled for home, hearts and hearths.
Except the emotionally homeless, the subjects of wrath.
The sun had set, the night cold and wet.
Meg had walked in riding a horse with no legs.
I sat there on a horse with no mane.
Lonely and played out along lifeís lanes.
Being alone was fiercely gnawing away.
I felt my rev counter kick into play.
I looked up to heaven. It was about eleven.
Meg looked down the street at a flashing motel light,
a vacancy brightly in sight.
Two fast lane horses on slow graze out to pasture.
In the thundering storm our body heat
would be the only warmth we could muster.
Casualties of social cluster bombs,
doing anything to kill our numb.
There was no longer pleasure in bread,
for the hungry undead.
Riding the storm out on a bucking bed.
Killing the loneliness instead and the gnawing dread.

CI- 329414051 Knight Truelove Poems