The Cage, it stood, five meters tall,
Iron and rusted, head to foot.
Its standing yet, we know not how,
Marked with an age of industrial soot.

Rotted are the wooden boards
Which once comprised its floor,
And empty now, the cell it seems
Now and forever more.

No one sees its frail old bones,
Or notices its placid gaze.
No one remembers the days of old
When cries for blood rang out in waves.

The Cage it stands, still and alone,
A century or more has passed
Its usefulness has long been gone
Its lust for life burnt out at last.

A sigh escapes the aged ribs,
An abrasive metal keen ensues
It cries in fear, in mortal woe,
As all its tissues tear in two.

09/25/2001

Posted on 09/25/2001
Copyright © 2025 Leandra K Brossard