This poem was originally published on 2 August 2016.

Saddled with a dream,
Packing the final punch lines,
An owl with a pen,
Typed his inkheart,
On fresh lines.

Poised for a swim,
In a melting pot like fondue,
They said don’t slip,
Be left a crumb –
Forget the true you.

Shrugging off the shade,
He asked to schedule a reminder,
To shred the papers,
Smudge the colour,
And throw out the binder.

Scanning the eyeballs,
He knew fitting in was the rage,
Those tints in the eyes,
Unclean stains,
That blinded them to the fact:
He was actually beige.

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