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“Some days I am the storm. Today I’m the puddle no one steps in, just something to avoid, that waits to be dried up and forgotten.” – Poet
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Some days I fly like an eagle, some days I waddle like a duck— today I’m fried chicken crispy, cold, out of luck. Some days I run with wild horses, some days I hunt with the wolfpack— today I’m a belly-up snake on asphalt cracked and black. Oh, how I swam with dolphins, struck like white sharks through foam— today I’m gutted salmon, smoked and salted far from home. On the cutting stone. Some days I prowl like a panther through jungle thick and green— today I am scraps for rodents on a stranger’s kitchen floor unseen. Some days I howl with coyotes at moons both dark and bright— today I’m roadkill possum as vultures circle, rip and fight. Now I feel like a broken song my voice ground coarse and gray, wondering what cruel appetite has left me spayed flayed betrayed. On the grinding stone. It’s the hollowness of silence when the wild has moved on through, and you’re served up on life’s table— nothing left that’s truly you. It’s the break when seasons stagger when the night gnaws through the bone, the crack where time is splintered and the sky abandons its throne. On the whetstone I lie between migrations— wildness gone, yet not my own. Not on my own, not on my own— On the tombstone. Caught within the fault-line turning like a prayer all alone all alone... so alone. Wait— the Potter’s shaping stone.
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