Pelt (a poem)

Searching for some calm…

I’m not the dead hare
in the arms of the artist

Think of me
as the felt underfoot
but without the healing properties
(real or imagined)

and my face is more red
than gold

I no longer think
with or without the rose
(but don’t tell anyone)

I once had the voice
(or so I was told)

I still have the voice
but hate the way I sound

(That’s got nothing to do with the artist
it’s just the way I feel)

When words with the shaman
drop to a whisper
the true meaning will be revealed

then confused by the packets of sugar
in the cotton-lined box

no explanation forthcoming

I’m not the dead artist
in the arms of heaven

(13 November 2018)


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