(with apologies to R. M. Rilke and his ‘Panther’)
His vision, from neurotic genes
Has grown so confused it cannot bear
Life. It seems to him there is
No line, and in his mirror image, no life.
As he squeals and rolls his eyes, again
He totters on rickety, confected pegs
Like the fabricated gait of a wind-up doll
In which no sentience occurs.
Only at times, the veil lifts
Quietly; he sees a dog from the pound,
A vague picture forms of real life and love –
It clambers through his button eyes, plunges the metal heart
and is gone.
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