The Guard

THE GUARD


Imprisoned here by flowers

            no more than flowers, 

                        stars long since understood 


as compounds self-destructed

           near-millennia ago, a cardinal 

                        flaming in the flaming alder 


tree, (both lucky victims 

            of genetic pigmentation,)

                        can we dare to blame him    


for his gradual acclimation 

            to this, his earthy cell? 

                        Cause all is beautiful and well—


or would be—if he might

            but rid himself of this latent 

                        claustrophobia for Out.


Slow but persistent 

            he files on the world's window-

                        bars while the mind’s sentry 


sleeps. And he would be far

            away by now if not for

                        the shriek it makes. Ah yes,


here comes the intellect

            to set the record straight

                        and dose him back to sleep.



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