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You poacher, you carrier of arms,
You must understand before you take.
For the Poet’s breed, Loss is inherited—
Secondhand smoke. Your loss becomes me. Now—

Ask me with what ease,
I will reply that I am Poet.
My breed thrives here; my herd bathes in these springs.
Wander weary minds collect at these pools.

It is beautiful to be this easy. Now,
Watch in reverse as the water falls from our lips—
Waterfalls, so we never slake our thirst.
I am Tantalus-- satiety escapes me.

Animals, apart from Poets, forget their stressors—
A Poet never forgets. Stand we together in exaltation,
Thoughts breeding in the Saharan sun—
Cannibals consuming their creators.


Fickle feast of the rich at heart,
We grace our meals with understanding.
Full, fertile minds of the beasts make rest for the night—
Tomorrow will be sunny and our well will run dry.

I wonder, can you see it now?
Do you see my sun soaked oasis, my wanderlust?
Or are your eyes misleading?
Funny, the closest friends are the likeliest liars.

Tell me who is primitive now—
Your ravenous stare, your sexuality, devour me.
I am Poet and you Muse—
You eat my words and I your loss, but neither takes their fill.

I implore you save some for the rest of us,
Or my words will loose their meaning
And you will find yourself stranded—
Alone in this desert with your thoughts.

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