You can't think straight. The reins were always slack. They slipped from your hands again. You can't remember when; could've been in your sleep or while you escaped into butterfly flight, clicking: once, twice, watching colourful wings flit... as if they could save you... anyway you let go or maybe those reins were stolen and now there is no escape from the claw that clamps your flesh, forcing you back into the cold of an echoing cave.
©Jane Paterson Basil