Man is free at the moment he wishes to be.


He scuttles back and forth
In vague directions, a caterpillar,
With a hundred little fingers
That won't stop moving.

He collects wrinkled feathers
And presses them against his chest,
Holding them, smoothing them
As they tumble across his geography of scars.

Somewhere above him, kites,
With their tails nailed to doorways,
Are reflected in the asphalt puddles,
And like his string of younger brothers,
Sooner or later, they'll remember.

A/N: I just don't know. We analyzed a story about an impoverished child today in class and some of the words really jumped out at me. I'm not really sure what I even intended the meaning of this to be. I just know that I was thinking about a very dear friend while writing it, so I guess I could say that you inspired some aspect of it. At least the second stanza, if not more. Thanks.

Enjoy! Review!