It tickles, their snouts, caressing me. The sounds, their snorts, serenading me.
It’s gross, their tongues, harassing me. Heavy, their hooves, slamming me.
The mud, my skin, bathing me. These rocks, my back, piercing me.
I sneeze, these hay, cushion me. The earth, it’s cold, cradle me.
The flock, wayside, called the sheep. With men, in fun, sharing sleep.
From there, they jeered, mocking me. Nothing, they know, pacifies me.
The stars, I see, from where I lay. A view, so grand, we’re face to face.
Right here, someday, where you’ll stay. Right there, us stars, where we were made.
This was originally published on 2014.
Photo by Rakicevic Nenad from Pexels
Xeno Hemlock 