The truth is, I ache. I ache in a deep way that only a few people in this school can understand - or choose to understand. Music people, Biology people, Comm people, Psych people, Bible people...there are a few people in nearly every friend group, major, and class who understand what I'm getting at. Should we just roll over and say "Oh well?" I thought that's what we should do last semester, until one of my dear friends and favorite professors fell out of my life, just like so many others have this past year. There's not much we really can do. So I'll just sit over here in my corner of the Den and make some noise. I know I'm not alone.
Afraid, cowering
in plain sight,
Hiding from ethereal
unknowns.
Previously
our pride, but like
a lion
shorn, our colors worn
Now become
our shame.
Friends,
mentors, melt away like
spirits, the
young forgetting who
Once led our
vivacious pack.
Those men
with manes targeted,
Made
mediocre in a moment by
the will of
an iron pen.
The
convenience of hypocrisy,
The death of
justice at the hands
of a mere
formality enrage
Those left
behind – gold memories
Stained Red.
We few hide
defiantly in
the shadows
of our Den,
barring our
teeth at the bones
thrown to us
from the poachers’ table.
Some are
dragged away for show,
and
eventually we all jump through their
hoops, kings
made stooges.
Would that
there were Prides left to
laugh at our
Circus, but extinction
breeds
nothing but an audience riveted to
this
momentary drama.
I count down
the days until this collar of
chain rusts
away – Time its only key.
My mane once
shorn surfaces again,
Teasing and
tantalizing, tempting me
with new
life.
A choice
remains, for the 15:
Do we keep
our collar, fondly recalling
Our might
being smothered into nothing
larger than
a house cat? Or
shall we
leap through our last hoop,
roaring in
contempt at the Board that
holds the
remains of our rusted chain?
Suddenly a
snap! Sally forth or
sit in
silence. I ask no pardon
for my
Roar.
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