magic dreamer, he
cooks celestial, feeding
his people. his desire
to simmer us all
in his soup of the soul:
to cure the world.
wild horse with no master,
not realizing his own mastery.
hidden in a shrinking forest,
laborious wooden hands,
leather eyes, if only
we could see
what plains lie before
his wilderness of imagination.
the peasantry written
into his face, weathered, his
mossy cedar mane. voice
that echoes from his ancient
his ancient ancient heart. and then,
the little boy who stares out
from behind those clouded eyes,
that grinning tooth.
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