Chimera (Patreon)

No gold comb can move through

This mane. My skin is not translucent.

Mine is a tail to fear. I know.

And though a mother may destroy,

She too sees fit to create beauty

That would eventually grow into forms

I would swallow if I gave in

To my hungers. But, up from my wounds—

From this goat's body—

Up from my wood-smoke lungs, from

The milk of me, comes a song, a melody

To open yours, then lick them clean.

- Vievee Francis, "Chimera" from Forest Primeval.