I once was a boy with hopeless determination. Blindly pursuing pain in its most appealing dress. I may never again know a sincerity with such shamelessness. Honesty is not a thing to forgive or forget, but ingrained in everyone is a desire to escape this truth. The pain. Oh, it was such an appealing dress.
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Simply to breathe
can make him bleed,
the fox whose leg
is trapped, whose will
awaits the kill.
Why should he flail?
Moving hurts,
so he lies still.
Around him walks
a prouder fox,
his severed leg
a homily
on going free,
as if to say
it hurts, it hurts
either way.
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