Last Exit Poem by grace mariner

You gave me bad directions.
I think it was intentional.
I could be wrong I suppose,
but doubtful.
A ferals paranoia is ongoing and omnipresent.
That is why we perch high up.
Watchers of the world everyone else lives in while we exist in ours.
But even the cautiously clever ferals eyes can be blinded, when the beacon that bedazzles burns so hot and bright.
You were my last exit.
A giant, literally and figuratively.
Hard to avoid that bump, that fork, in my path.
Invisible from my survey post.
More so when too close.
You reassured me that I was not lost.
I think you lied as you, being a giant, could see further down the road.
You could see the broken guardrail, the sinkhole,
the saboteurs who laid in wait.
But you led me along still.
And so we reached our, my, last exit on that February morning.
And now, as I search for a higher perch, one at least higher than you,
I wonder at what point you domesticated me.
To survive I must learn from my mistakes.