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If You're Fast Enough You Disappear.

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He wanders through the forest like it's a cage.
He wonders at the bars as they break,
he bites them.
It's just the rage
- but then he wakes.
He wanders the sands, the dunes,
such a becoming sight, it moulds his colours,
it makes him fit,
and he roars at the prospect, he spits.
'What's wrong with uniformity? ' they ask him,
oblivious to his contempt, the casket
and the poorly build-up tent.
There lies no answer, only pretense.
He cannot fathom a land of boredom incarnate,
all the same, all the same, overly complex.
He wraps the rope around his frame
in hopes to choke on it, as tame
is just another common wish.
No, he likes the burn
and the black marks, the churn
of his weak mask.
He likes the pain.
If he's not free, he'd rather
not at all be.
Oh, the tiger, he dissects
the self's ribs, he collects
contested sins,
and his motion is so violent
that it almost appears still.
Monday, March 29, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: tiger,violence,freedom,boredom,stillness,anger,fire
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4/10/2021 9:46:27 AM # 1.0.0.559