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The Fifth of July



What does it feel like

To be an animal?

To follow pure instinct?

Would you still tip your hat

To the burly black bear

Sitting alone on the bus

Taking you to some other

Wretched comfort?


What is this restraint I feel?

It is discomfort

Purified over years

Of mulling over these

Despicable questions with

Answers that cannot be found

In this life.


A pale child at the zoo

Dragged away on a red leash

Her guts trailing behind,

Strewn across a cold cement floor

Cracking under the weight of

The elephant enclosure.


“Freedom,” the eagle squawks, “independence, jubilation uninhibited!”

Shot dead in flight,

Feathers drift, finding a home miles away

In the wild, wild woods

Where the blind hunter

Roasts his prey over a hastily-made fire

Only to find the old bird

Too tough.



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