I read a poem today

about a poem hiding from its poet.

the images have been swarming my head all day

and now I am convinced

that this is the case:

the loud steps in my mind

have caused the words to scatter back into the underbrush.

the poems, like hunted animals,

have fled into hiding

and I, the poacher,

stand in the clearing of an emptying mind

rifle in hand.

I enter like a thief into my own thoughts

to salvage the brittle truth

and the poems watch me from their hiding places

hearts st-stuttering in their chests,

wondering who next will have their head stuffed

and hung on the wall like a prize.

– Padfoot


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