I find more lunatic zeal and spirit in my hellhound, roused from clearly a tentative slumber, prized rawhide under paw, yet no approach to such treasure was responsible for his call to arms..from guarded sleep, to…middle of the garden, madness in his lantern eyes, his raucous roar to the world, clearly designed to ward off, or demand a duel…than I do in most humans I meet, let alone know other than in outline and name and shame…
For my own tribe, by species, seems ever more less prone to delineation as one from another, than blades of grass. I wish I could cut the heads off the Many, as I mow the lawn, in the hope, that something better will grow in its place. Yet if it doesn’t…my whirling dervishes of blade fury, will come once more…so show me some buds, or I will cut off your head….
The presently cocooned poet within, has had its fill with of chrysalis routine.
It’s claws and fangs have grown too long and eager,
and are tearing themselves OUT INTO THE OPEN….
Only to find, with despair, my mind careful and cunning enough,
to suture the wounds, put that beast back in its box…
Have I become, that worrisome suggestion of more me than others, of finding myself so far removed from…the other humans…that my unbridled self expression routine is met aghast?