You cower in the corner
of the dimly lit room;
flinching, snarling,
like a wild animal.
"Poor thing," murmur the people
passing by the glass,
"Poor thing."
Their voices
hollow and empty,
robotic sympathy.
I come up to the glass,
stroke it fondly,
and begin to sing.
The ancient words
heavy and sticky,
like honey
on my lips.
You stir,
humanity and lucidity
showing in your
forest green eyes.
Your hand on mine
slips through glass,
and I grab it.
I drag you out
of your cage,
and you stretch your wings.
We smile
at one another,
then I take you home
with me.