I am not a gloating lark,
Not a song bird,
Nor a demure darling;
But a derelict,
A grackle,
A coyote,
A lurking,
Crawling,
Wild-eyed beast.

I am the lion
At the circus,
Surrounded by the
Cloying smell of
Peanuts,
Funnel cakes, and
Cotton candy.
Jabbed by shrieking
Sticky-fingered
Children
Day after long and
Futile
Day,

So long that
Dreams of
Downed antelopes
And open
Swaying
Brown grass
And low-tree,
Cool shade
Are torn
Broken
Empty,
And faded into
A vague Savannah
Sunset
Without color.

Dreams in
Black and
White
Are dreams
Forgotten upon
Waking,
Leaving only a
Tired-eyed
Wonder
At some
Inexplicable,
Intangible feeling
Of loss,
The loss of
Something
Thats never had
But always missed,
And missing.

To lay under the
Dry, crackling trees again
Would be astounding,
But steel bars
Are safe
And close,

And theres a
Particular shame
In accepting bars
And losing
The vast
And vivid color
In ones dreams.

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