It sways when
the wind blows
then it stops,
and it flows,
glazing pancakes
for a living.
Misty fields
echo, and silence takes a breath
exhaling
disrupting the dead from their rest
waking the new
with a fresh start
sailors’ only
friend, is the calling before the storm.
With a powerful
sway, the dance begins
no warnings of
such an event,
although there
is wiggle room,
tributaries forming
from birth
to old age, if
you know my background
you would know
I’m elaborate
with everything
I do.
Raised in a box
and fed like a slave,
tough faded-pink
skin, slaughtered,
into a salty
strip.
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