AFTERNOON OF A FAUN
Somedays I get so tired of myself
it's an imaginative reach to just
keep breathing. I want to stitch
my breath shut. Until. I. Die.
-
The broad plane of that upper
leaf is far too high for me to
gather. I eat nothing when I
can't reach the food.
-
So, Mysterium, faun or fawn,
or satyr or nymph - which shall
I call it to be? Perhaps I am like
that King with the lucky hand
turning all he touched into gold.
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