First Born

thoughts, like ribbons, wend and weave
behind my watery eyes,
beneath my skin

occasionally, while sleeping,
one lifts a fingernail and drops
unceremoniously to glass-covered parchment

just a slip of a thing, really

upon waking, I may give it a name
then send it out into a disinterested world

from there,
it becomes altogether, perhaps,
something new

merely a breath
a drop of red blood from my veins

tara caribou | ©2020

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