Twigs:
broken, scraggly, overflowing
and messy,
form a cage
inside which the world
has no sort of problems.
Outside the barriers
danger lurks, but what does it
matter? Here is safety,
perfection,
a place of complete and utter innocence
in which
the young are not yet disillusioned.
Inside the bars rests
a downy scrap,
its fibrous tendrils reaching out
for what it has lost.
The sharp tip pokes around
as if it could recover the endearing inexperience
that it was formed of.
Endless memories shape its
ever-changing substance.
No more: the wind sweeps through,
stirs its hair and reminds it
you are alone,
there is nothing left
of those who made you and now
this structure is yours to rule.
So fallible, so breakable.
The ivory backbone and its fuzzed extensions wait
firmly lodged amongst the twigs
until they become a part of the cage
themselves.
There is nothing else to do here
and even this
seems unproductive:
there is no one left
who needs to be protected.
---
Crit would be much appreciated; I'm aware this isn't very good. Thanks.
