Part I:
The room is brightly lit
Candles shimmer like starlight, spreading
warmth to a solitary figure, curled up on the concrete floor
Paintings hand on walls, a wormhole to another time and place.
There are no chains, no shackles, no locks in the room
But the person inside is serving life, doomed to do so since his birth
Ignorant of the harmony of birdsong, of perfect water spheres, of the balance of plants.
But never wanting a second paradise, an Eden of everlasting beauty
Never yearning for mountain air, singing creeks, for angry skies
For the room has no windows, no doors
And the person no tools for getting out.
Part II:
His feet are calloused, rough as sandpaper and tough as diamond
His hair is wavy, a collage of black and brown, curling down to the base of his neck
His eyes piercing and sharp, constantly darting from potential enemy to food,
like an adrenaline filled jockey.
His fingernails, long but shaped, smooth white but with hints of red underneath
Deserted by his own species long ago, he must make do with Mother Nature.
Her gentle hills, caressing winds, and abundance of food may be enough sometimes
But always moving, always on the run, lies in the animals he hunts, not in him.
He yearns for a partner, for shelter, for a place safe from dangers outside
He’s seen families share a cooked meal, sisters share a comfy bed, and uncles grab a refreshing beer.
But he can never stop running, never stop disappearing
Doomed to roam for eternity and to die in solitude
Fading back into the place of where he emerged.