.
.
The prospect of expulsion
from the only realm of being
one had known to some
unknown zone,
without warning –
say, the zone of floral
quadrupedal hominids,
which, had one thought
.
it possible, was what
one would, at all costs,
have done all one could
to have avoided - eh bien,
screw that, honey, it’s a blast
to be a sunny spiritual paragon
in caravans of other floral
quadrupedal hominids
.
all fêted as divinities
by those unfortunate
enough to not be them.
There are much worse things
you could be, my sweet
petite verisimilitude
of pater-noster
pâte-à-choux!
.
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