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The Oldest Profession

Dark and hollow, cold and safe.

A hillside savior, towards which I race.

A place to hide from creatures who hunger.

And Skies that cry and flash and thunder.

No wonder this haven is empty and void.

No life. No food. No signs of joy.

Oh boy, the climb itself was hell.

But worth the journey to be well.

No well for water. I brought my own.

Got wood for fire and tools of bone.

Alone I feast on beast from hide.

Adrift a dream world deep inside.

Eyes wide awake. This feeling. A rush.

The longer I think. The quicker to mush.

I must get it out. No reason to waiver.

Instinctively making a moment to savor.

I favor the things I’ve seen before me.

Making and marking, well into the morning.

My story or something of substance to share.

On walls & ceilings. Some here and some there.

My tale of life no longer untold.

A feeling of pride begins to unfold.

I’m sold. So now, I live for expression.

And that is why art is the oldest profession.

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