I miss the swish of grass and clover
The crunch of twigs, no pangs, no hunger,
That place is far--I must not pine--
For a poor, plucked porcupine
I stumble back, too late to exit,
She glares at me, at these sharp spines
Her ink has spilled, so here she whines
I hate, I hate to wish her ill
She writes this poem with my quill
I often feel, when drawing a person especially, that I'm 'robbing' them of their essence in order to give it to my art. So this poem is written from the point of view of the one robbed of its essence for the sake of art...
This was quite a challenge to animate because the poem is so short -- a whole story in a capsule -- to the point I cut off some of the earlier animation idea because less is often more...