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Reynard's Repast


The constraints of one's choices
Are iron bars of a cell
Caging all but the noises
From one's own, private hell...
Looking back at what once was
The future to have been,
Rusted wreckage, strewn because,
We would not look within.

We creatures of our habits
Are truly self-made men,
Who scurry here like rabbits,
Unaware the fox den
Till reynard has his mouthful,
And it's us, a la carte,
Unnoticed being slothful...
His repast, we're a part!

Today, a different road
I'll follow to its end,
Watchful, near whose abode
The time I choose to spend;
Tomorrow, yet, another,
Expecting with each start
To touch a broken brother,
Release a cloistered heart.


--H. Arlequin

 

 

 

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copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved