I think, therefore iambic pentameter

The thing about ponies is that they really do
shimmer absurdly, bizarre explosions of pastel
when the scorching August sun beats down and shatters
against each coarsly snarled strand of their tails.
Between the dust particles, infused
with dry manure, colors sparkle and dance.
In that flagellating light, it's too damn hot
to care that horses look like rainbows. I'm thirsty.
I am weary of ennui, burnt out on cynicism.
Grit stings beneath my eyelids, and I wait
for the sudden pearl-grey clouds to gather, burst.
Small rivers streaming down my dusty flesh,
I helplessly receive the mud and splendor.
The kingdom must be found as by a child.