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On being human

And wolly goes the spinning string
Like mud on tray, the melting clay
Those molding hands, of heavens blessed
Press their fingers on a beating heart

A funny vein that slips away
As blood and dirt like playing dough
Takes shapes of thoughts of thinking kids
And dreams of nights on strawy beds

Fever-dreaming, the drunk sleepwalkers
Stroll down a city made of cork
That morning smell of steamy pork
Memories past on wooden bench

You watched the now with shaky friends
And came back home with red-nosed eyes
A warm hug from a white bowl
And caring glares from old people

Deep down you know that wasn't you
That red scarf never matched your face
It tore apart itself in string
And wrapped around your naked body

Now you know those scars are old
And why you miss that hometown cold
That fuzzy feeling on your neck
To haunt again it does come back

That woolly snake, now back on track
And here he comes, the whistling man
He steams through fields with shiny eye
A plume of smoke so dead and black

You hear it scream so loud and clear
As grass on trees burn down to ash
It brings with it and to the skies
A message written by progress

And every time you see your blade
You feel it's weight and grab it's lust
It reeks of blood from battles past
You sheathe it back as to forget

A watching tiger on high dry grass
It's claws are out, it's eyes are sharp
A glare that stabs you from behind
You better run while you still can

I know it's late but I digress
The moon tonight so thin and young
We kept tabs on how sho moved
Now we pack food on metal cans

As smilling pigs on happy styes
Plot their revenge on humankind
I take a shower in the dark
To not forget your face of light

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Written on November 12, 2021

Submitted by guory on November 17, 2021

1:42 min read

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    "On being human" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 25 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/114206/on-being-human>.

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