Poem: Target

To not be the object of scorn,

Ensuring that like the wren flitting from branch to bush one never stays still enough

To be hit squarely

Where it hurts forever. That, of all things, is the vaunted ideal

Professed in halls of academia and glossy sheaves of luridly illustrated imagery.

Experience tells us so.

But fly on obliviously, little fellow. Into the maws

Bravely (or the corollary) we soar onward, toward the sun.

Content to burn.

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