Crop circles in the cotton field;
Intricate lies woven into white downy sheets...
Aliens amass from the lowest stalk;
Golden seed, not quite ivory
Not quite ebony;
A misfit; unfit...
But foreign, nonetheless;
Belonging to the cotton,
The only mother that has ever dared call it a son;
The stifling wind, the only father it has ever known.
Bastard seed of the cotton field;
Snatched away from his mother's downy, cotton bosom...
Not quite ebony,
Not quite ivory;
Pitied and accepted,
Yet rejected just the same;
Alien, golden-bronze seed
Weaving crop circles into the cotton field;
Complex patterns, mysteriously etched into the space
Where he had lain;
Not quite foreign,
But neither human;
Child of the cotton field.
© Copyright 2016 Jennifer Brighton. All rights reserved.
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