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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Being a Dinosaur

Where can I go?
Who will have me?
The last dinosaur.
I am the DNA of a forbidden species.
We died long ago.
When the moon was shattered
by a transparent star.
When we drowned in a sea
of red fire.
When our genes became smoke,
and gray ash and femurs.
But some of us lived,
under little arches
that remained uncrushed.
Howling in the night.
Whispering to the stone,
where is the light that made us roar,
filled us with strength?

I look for my ancestors
in the stone by my door,
among scallops, sea urchins, fans,
to see a toe print,
a hieroglyphic,
a name that belongs to me.
And sometimes,
when the sun is setting
in the shadows of the grain,
the stone tells me
under the door light,
near the lintel of the door,
not describable in words,
but written nevertheless,
that I am a beloved tyrannosaurus
something.
Who roars in the silence of his heart,
one of the last race of giants,
rulers of millennia,
looking up and down the street,
for the members of his race
still left.

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