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The Lion

Posted in Poetry

Every morning, I patch the cracks in my soul and tie a double knot;

Tending my mother who has already died years ago, before I was born perhaps

Whose truth is the cliché thrown as far from my centre as she can manage.

I want so much to run out of the building and find the hungriest lion and offer myself,

But now our myth is “Amazon,” not THE Amazon;

Lions are scarce;

The riverbed is gone.

She is crushing me like the wrong drop shipping train loose on orphaned tracks;

“Good for you,” makes me want to chew glass.

Her “Thank you,” makes me feel for a vein;

I am starved of truth, of sincerity with the paint still wet–art is the only saviour right now.

Came out of the blue as if to distract me from my raging hunger,

Am I being called to something?

How is it that I am still here at all?

Keep the door open in case a lion is wandering nearby.

Triple the knot.

Damn the stars.

Damn the stars.

Bless the stars.