Morning closes in. The bright light of a monitored cage. Where everyone who passes offers the highs of a kind transcendence or the lows of a cruel and self centric face. A tiresome trilling of song for those who pluck feathers with every touch. Writing stanzas with quills stolen from napes of birds. Threading boas with their spines. Strip me with romanticised intention, then stand before me, daring to say "we are all cages revolving around one another". But not all cages are equal. And in my fury, in my teething rage, may the joints of bare wings bend back these brazen bars. Splintering into the hands that dared boldly swift past them.