he wrote poems about me
before i was kitten-born
black ink, no taste, smell
on paper, tree-like, thin
rustles beneath feet.
i did not hear them.
i lived, green fields
slopes
field banks
burrows dark, warm.
but i sensed what he said
he gave us names, lives
singled us to
within our kind.
now i am alone
live lone life.
myxie, he calls me
poem words
rabbits sniff, smell
butt blind, sickened
rabbit from my home.
i will die.
i eat bright colours
garden dark, dawn
petal flavoured scent
i am king, god
nectar for food.
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