Maker (Poetry)

It is all the same to me —
scales — skin — fur — feather —
all beneath is breathing flesh of sorts
and star-kindled warmth.

Divine in tooth and claw —
each wild maze of hair —
every rippled landscape of live skin — complete
with a magic pulse inside.

I favour none — frown equally —
share my dispassion on their plight —
observe the struggle —
note their many faults...

I cannot, in truth, tell beauty from the beast —
all have my blood — and love’s
evolved from some mad myth
they’ve fashioned for themselves.

I take no credit — claim
immunity from certain charges made —
I gave them form from nothing — nothing more —
the soul’s a fiction dreamed along the way —
                                believe me.