So I see, the raccoon says, staring into garbage barrel.
This was made for me, the turtle says, on log downed by a beaver.
Your cruelty damns you to the deep, the lifted hare to the eagle.
With pleasure I will be my best, the termite to the cedar.
Naturally I fit here, in zebra mussel’s lake.
I long for life and sun and water, the weed among the flowers
.
Seeing well these animals do, of morals, ethic stake.
Consider twice presumptive tone, gleaming by thy towers,
for speed it up to slake the thirst, empty rivers desert bed.
But this world was built for me, expectations bowers.
Contorted are my fingers tipped, with nails of sharpened tread.
Tired are the lingered ticks, hungry to be fed.
Digging in while passing on, acceptability representative hobby.
Goading smiles with allowing frowns, a floor made fast and shoddy.
Roman Ryan 