By Ben Vest
Reruns of the cartoon bird tweeting in its cage, Out the window I’m zoning, quieting the rage. The double lines dividing the street, Across from childhood house was a hill of wheat, Dry and barren, rough against bare feet, Scurrying towards the top was my solitary retreat, Young and searching for meaning, adventures to seek, Songs from canaries, simply sweet, Glistening golden like magical fairies, Chirping away while feeling on unripened berries, The cats prowl ends in defeat, For the foaming retriever bites the meat, Leaving the cat messy, unkempt, now obsolete, Nature’s tune to greet. Lunging across the trenches, Machete sticks to hack and fling, Over and underneath fences, Facing off against the king, Surrounded by burnt sticker bushes, Tearing clothes as the thorns presses, Blood stains and the wounds sting. On the top of the hill I could fly, Soaring on plastic swings, Sailing through the sky, Arms extended as if I had my own wings, Head tilts back with closed eyes, Fire hues inside the sun brings, Peaceful solitude I could almost cry, Safely stored away within nature’s ring, Until the street lights turned on, I had to say my goodbyes, Returning home to unimaginable things, As the sun sets another day dies.
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