The stars have told he’s a monkey,
but I know he’s scared of heights.
I still feel his frantic fingers clinging to mine,
as the sky welcomed us.
He shakes himself out, like a dog,
and tramples through the tide,
to fetch me from my fantasising.
The stars have told me I’m a sheep,
and though I’m soft, and sweet,
no dog shall be my master,
and I’d hoped never to run at one’s command.
The whistle whispers,
I resist running,
but I shudder, and I slither,
and I catch a train,
to have my taken man,
like the hypnotised snake he knows I am.
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