Compulaion


I am an ox in an open field. The yoke upon my neck is made from things I have never seen.  

It was placed there in the night without my consent or desire.  

I am compelled by joy to pull.  


The smell of success is in the air.  

It is the harvest soon to come.  

It is the smell of grass and trees.  

It is the dirt beneath my hooves.  

So I pull with joyous vigor!


The strength of my bones is beyond words to say.  

It is more than an Ox should have.  

For there is no whip to urge me on.  

There is no carrot before my face.  

It is the sound of his voice that drives me forward.  


Lovely,

Soft,

Tender,

More sure of his way than the hardest of steel.  

“Pull”,

He whispers. 

AND PULL I WILL!

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