Cow

Your creator has honored you by spotting you with paint. But you, tree stump, with cowboy eyes, glaze your mind and continue in your gluttonous chewing,
chomping cud, letting the grass dribble over your lips.

Your creator has honored you
by spotting you with paint.

But you, tree stump, with cowboy
eyes, glaze your mind and continue
in your gluttonous chewing,
chomping cud, letting the grass
dribble over your lips.

Letting your food processor, distract
you from the greener grass,
where the greens are sweeter
and the grub more tender.

With an IQ of twenty
and a mass of one thousand
you don’t’ notice,
don’t consider
the paradise that lay beyond.

This is how you will live—
an ornamental rock
in a forest of weeds,
only casting a shadow
for all the bugs below.

And not even a swift kick
could make your mooing
scream to the moon,
the place you dreamed of
once before.

© S. Ann Comte, 11 February 2014

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Writer. What more can be said. Actually, a lot. So, just read and find out.

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