A predator’s bones,


A pattern bearing the mark,

Of beautiful demise.

Artefacts in various shapes and sizes,

Once moving all together,

In the hunt.

Misunderstood art,

Wary eyes deter,


Wild fantasies,

Nature’s melody,

The beast’s eminence,


The thrill and liberty,

The vixen once possessed.

Two-legged masses,

Walked this earth,

Subjecting the mute beasts to slavery.

They are like malleable metal,

Fashioned into weapons and tools.

Of all questions,

Ours will be unanswered,

For no mouth,

Will dare ask it.

And risk trespassing the mundane’s capacity,

Of limited tolerance.

For the mundane fears the mundane alone.

But the rebel indulges in forbidden,

Desires and dreams.

To know the world beneath our own,


An unyielding existence,

Whose end will eventually come,

Like the turning of a page.

To end the somewhat cumbersome life,

Artists contemplate with,

And poets sympathise with.

Fading away,

Like the flowers of the earth,

Are we,

As our legacies.

But the vixen’s bones remain,

A mystery,

A beauty,

A profanity.



One thought on “THE VIXEN’S BEAUTY

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