I drew a picture
of a poet; the face,
an orchard, blooming
words, one strong chest,
a soft breast; one foot of
a beast, one of a dove,
struggling to balance
in a dancing posture;
one wing of an eagle
one of a Gabriel,
hair, half-forest
half neatly braided;
no hands, no eyes, no ears,
the lower portion, a tad
controversial, comfortably
covered with a black piece
of rag; on the whole, the
desperate brush tried to
capture the likeness of a creature
who’d sprung directly into adulthood,
of someone who’d converse in
verse, but forever peripheral, an
outcast, for the fear that the being
could cast a spell that’d end all sins;
therefore, thrown out as a sinful,
a strange outsider who would go
inside the human’s mind, in no
time
when the
work was done,
it was
difficult to make it lie
or stand,
for a moment I
thought
of not working on
its back,
I discovered to have
ignored the interiors too, that's
how incomplete a reflection is,
I mused; however, the image
in time acquired a tag;
a far-out version of an
ordinary
ag.
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