The only life I’ve left is locked in your
imagination, where it seems I’m free
to live the wild life, swing from tree to tree
and beat my chest and live by jungle law.
It’s grand... it’s cinematic... just not real.
I scurry into undergrowth. I’m lost
in shadow, in the leaf litter, alert
for crawling things, mouth full of worms and dirt:
a feast for your Lord of the Jungle Compost.
Imagine a Colossus. Make him kneel.
I’m always tired. Every rustle, crack,
each flicker of a leaf, a breeze, all make me start.
I’m tensed and scared, expecting the attack:
the final thrust, the spear impales the heart.