He was stacked up black- a wild thing where the tame things are.
Disconnected, disentranced, as black as the sky he should be under, but lost.
Where are you lost from and found in such a tedious place?
Caretakers with fleshy antennae that reach out and tap the bars of your cage.
This is not nature, a pair of brown eyes illusive and translucent- able to see your fright, though you are all one shade of it.
Time to leave the nest to be left behind before you could fly
Sometimes the wingless teach the alar how to be.
How to be.
And oh, God that look in your eye like a ball of ashy end-of-world rock.
There are no tricks that can deceive you of your freedom and so here you're left in the place where we cook chickens.
You tuck yourself beneath your own wing, because no one else knows the comfort you need.
Sleep little wild thing, sleep wild thing, sleep.
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