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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