One Hundred Percent Wool

by matthewmousekewitz

He calls himself a writer.

His cleverness conceals him from sheep.

A phobia deep

   Seated in the color of

   waves on cloudless days.

 

He hushes and instructs others

with an arrogant pomp.

Burdened by skinny sleep for the week (weak).

Hungry for chili, sourdough, and something else,

So I fed him “The sun rises in the yeast”

Something so suspiciously spice

That he eats and eats and repeats the process.

 

He paints himself in green

   patches his bleeding red heart

   with brilliant blue band-aids

   Immune to the pull away.

Is completely battle weary,

But perseveres because

All bandages must come off someday

and hearts with scars still beat the same.