Misfit

The man wants you easy,

knocking on the wall
for permission

but lightly, not in need
with that spark –

an anger of too fast words
better held without panic

of long eyes and
their fragile warning,

just like the moon, head
held bowed to the sun

is the owed, owned light
from a distance

hunted on every horizon;
those, back turned and running

are a reflection of another
until quiet,

looking upon the face
of one who demanded
what they will not:

a monster, a victim –

and upon the wall slam
the crumbling heart

knocking loudly on the long night
with dreams made vivid

too struck of love,
indelible by necessity:

the own, owned warmth of self

who once gathering flowers
within a cage grew rich
with seeds

now slipping, or falling,
between every crack

having found no door
to ask entrance

grown uncontainable.