caged

caged.

habit forms the bars.

responsibility becomes my instincts.

cubs don't leave soon enough.

den is packed with spatial usage.

the hunt has daily, 

written all over it.

the terrain is familiar 

but there are seasonals always in play.

practicals and pragmatics 

become the dailies.

the environment dictates the songs 

that I, in my privacy, 

privately have sung.

forget at times, 

that I am a creature 

of tendencies and practices.

nature is my natural homeland.

I am a singular self in the making,

not matter the circumstance, surrounding.

I can howl extremely loud, effectively.

mothering instincts are overplayed. 

obsessed with the hunt.

have a stockpile of successes surrounding.

purr in the privacy of my aloneness.

imagine being an angel in my next.

could have been born 

into a better hunt environment.

have instincts I seem to infrequently use.

caged, as if by my judgments' demandings.

my hunting environment shrinks with age.

make better kills with timing at my side.

am a cat species with dog instincts.

need a kinder terrain to live into.

soft savage is my cynical mindset close by.

live where the hunt is always real.

even though, the dream lives within me.

still caught in the matrix

between the dream and the demands.

one lives in the definites,

while the other oddly ever 

yet seems never approaching.

I have the soul of a saint

but live as a species of survival.

emotional self-mentoring, ever in need.

wise in the moment 

but still internal wisdom in want.

I will pass through your world, 

well camouflaged.

deftly skilled at mutedness in passage.

can appear to be well occupied

by traits that garnish, gather and glean.

know me by your sighted momentary take,

for I will pass, in that way.

and you will not know

what I secretly in spirit seek . . .