He changed this man
from young, light, brightness
and sparkling eyes, hands
fluttering and a lithe frame

to a degenerate thing, old and
done, barely living, a natural
predator who sucked-in and
changed himself to

whatever was required
by the client.  His 
brow receded and chin
weakened - the clay 

unpieced, gave way.
I sought another one,
years behind the plough
sowing and sowing 

but seeds fell on stony
ground and did not rise.
A landscape dearth.
No changeling to

stab my eyes,
no entertainment of
pain - such a rough day
at sea, sick all over the

side.  The ground and water
came together to fashion
a new one from its bones -
you bade him rise

a million miles from me,
and glad of it am I.
He can change his nature
from bar to bar and

room to room and
bed to bed - it does
not trouble me.  His
receding hairline

is his own concern.
I know your plan
is to make him learn,
make a blind man see.
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