My fur be faux ’cause I found no need to kill for warmth—we have been graced with the rise of comforts, namely pushbutton heat.
I pay no blood price.
You will not catch me trapping rabbits for fashion, ‘cuz like my diamonds I clean no blood from knives for a good show.
You may spy me in authentic fur—genuine leather maybe,
but know it’s been recycled, thrifted, hand-me-downed or gifted, and to the dear creature who has sacrificed most I offer no price, but many meditations well paid.
You will see me here or there my crown ‘dorned full and gratefully feathered, be kin to know they have long since been pluck from vintage wings, cast down from the plumes of one who still soars the skies or pulled from a shelf of manufactured plumage.
Still, you will not find me cursing the man who captures the doe, or the woman who glistens like pressure crafted stars from a laboring man’s land—no, ‘for every life has a price to pay, every bird a good song—and we all have a measure of heart, no one being’s strummings lesser or grander than the next.