The Pekin
Bred for nothing but precision, I was a work of mastery.
A plush coat of velveteen feathers, blanched of color
Who is to decide the true value of art?
Woe, could I have known my beauty,
had I seen in for myself.
Beauty is elusive; holding no value
until it is determined by the world.
Poked and prodded and stretched and examined
until its worth is a unit of currency.
Alas, I was born a dead duck.
Bred for nothing but precision, I was a work of mastery.
Could I have known the beauty I held,
was it not for my blissful naïvety.
My plush coat of velveteen feathers, blanched of color
were a futile whisper in the wind
Plumes floated like prayers above my head.
Precisely, I was not bred to be beautiful.
Your teeth collared around my neck;
I fell limp; susceptible to your carnal hunger.
Crimson blemished my pristine down.
Your teeth were audacious, trained on instinct to kill.
I was born a dead duck,
but rather I succumbed my will simply as prey.
Forgiveness comes easy; I know
I was born to be used, I forgive you.
I was bred to understand what the killer doesn’t.
Bred for purpose.
