Birds flutter and from their hiding places start,
The sounds of their wings like those of a broken heart
After a miserable life spent scraping for pounds,
Watching the hunter reload, and reward his hounds.
Only knee deep but drowning in stinking mud,
As from my thought-stone I try to squeeze blood
As if after so long, so lost, I’d cry out for help
As all other sounds yield to the hunting dog’s whelp.
The struggle’s nearly at its end, I’m strangled by knot-weed,
Abandoned to fate and the fickle wind like a wild seed
Sold for profit at a gardener’s black market,

Yanked,

From a catalogue of undeserving targets.
Butchered, my limbs and offal packaged for sale;
The voices of the vendors are a guilt-soaked gale.
But this time it won’t happen, I’ll never give up
My last seconds of breath to some spoiled pup.
It’s no loss for him as my veins harden like sap,
I’m just another lost trophy, “hard luck old chap.”
This is my home. As I’ve lived so I’ll die,
With my eyes upturned, rolling to the indifferent sky.
Just so I’ll remain forever on the edge of the sea,
To wallow in docile tranquillity.