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Rated: E · Poetry · Philosophy · #1537436
I simply wish to know what Real flesh is made from, and where it is sewn.
If my flesh is not Real,
then how does it break
when the Mad Man screams & flays?
How is there blood, if it is not Real blood,
and how does it touch your Real flesh?

Perhaps Real flesh is velvet & stone,
soft & regal when there is a sun to spill
its breath, hard & stolid when the moon
pulls with a stronger scent.

The Mad Man is Real flesh,
solid flesh which does tatter
the soft rags hanging from my plastic bones.
It is Real because he says so,
and because I do not say not so.
It is more than my plastic bones & diluted blood.
It is the Flesh of a King, the only Real way to live.

How do I get It?
How do I get It, before my nonflesh
becomes even less, and wilts away?
Must I steal It from the Mad Man, or
can I perhaps weave my own,
and then perhaps allow us both to live
with Real flesh?

I do not wish to bother.
I simply wish to know
what Real flesh is made from,
and where it is sewn.
I want to live Really and not just so.
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