A bird in a cage.
There is something fundamentally wrong with that.
It is a ghastly sight,
Yet, somehow, a tiny bit sanguine.
How? Just how?
Do we humans take pleasure,
Admiring birds in cages?
Do they remind us of ourselves?
Or is it something more sinister?
Do we indulge in clipping
Wings of fliers, just as
We do, clipping dreams of dreamers?
Or, is it something more godly?
Do we think of ourselves,
As masters of their fate,
While we are hapless about our own?
Everything in life can be symbolical.
A bird in a cage. That is you.
Your dreams, are there even remnants?
Your wings, were they ever there?
Break the cage.
Bludgeon it,
With a bloody mallet.
Like a killer on the loose.
Watch that bird fly.
Into the heaven of brief freedom,
That you, that him, that her,
That everything alive, dutifully deserve.
A bird in a cage.
There is something fundamentally wrong with that.
It is a ghastly sight,
Yet somehow, a tiny bit sanguine.
