Tiger, Tiger…

Can sadness leak
its dripping tears
as if it could
escape by proxy
through half inch wounds
then out through the knotted
wooden floor’s gaping remnants
of ancient times
and trees
torn limb from limb?
Imposters: damp and warped,
stiffened – dead grasslands
for clumsy walks,
prowls cut short by meagre
perimeters,
metal boundaries,
but there is no bounding,
no hunt, no chase, no kill
no cubs, no family,
but plenty of abandoned scent.
I smell fear and weakness,
greedy consumers,
glaring customers
disturbed human sweat
and cruel tamers
wielding lashes and prods,
sawdust,
chains and vicious collars.
Vices and weakness,
I see those – they smell
of commercialism
and exploitation; even my water
smells of death.
My tired body aches, its atrophy
longs to be beyond the wire mesh
and cruel, sadistic pleasure
in the vertical hold of cold steel.
I need to be
free
I need to run and run and run.
I mourn my invisible cubs,
and their schooling,
and being there to let them go
to let them live, love, hunt,
stalk, kill, sleep, dream
and survive.
I miss them.
I miss
living.