May 22nd

Upon entering the field
I am greeted by birdsong,
The fluttering of their wings
And the wind through the leaves
Soothes my senses in an instant.

Acres of green field
Lightly speckled with yellow blossom,
On this mild, mid May morning.

The melodic silence, so natural,
Rings on gracefully within the ear.
Then, a finch sings again,
Returning me to the beauty of reality.

A mother nestles her new born foul,
So tenderly.
A tenderness so foreign to man.

To hear the wind lick the grass
Means so much more than utopian dreams
Can even begin to conjure.

As I sit here,
Alone,
Hour upon hour,
Away from the grasp of man,
I have time to dream.
To dream dreams normally suppressed.

This is where I belong.

Ahead of me stands an old oak,
More beautiful than anything
My eyes could wish to witness.
So I gently rise
And stride towards,
As the crippled branches beckon me forward.

At the foot of its heavenly stature,
I stand,
Now more a man
Than ever before.

The rope swing, dangling, so daintily,
Swaying blissfully in the wind
Reminds me of youth,
My youth.
Youth and the hideousness of mankind.

Such a perfect form of nature
Tainted by the hand of man.

Overpowered by desire,
Summoned by a fit of rage,
I seize upon my emotions
As hatred burns within.

Something must be done.

Uncontrollable,
I cannot stand,
I cannot fall.

Entering a frenzy
I try to regain consciousness,
But now, now,
There is no way back.

I swing alone once more.

News reporter:

"The man of the hour has been found.
On his face,
Freedom,
Within his hand a crumpled list.

30 names.

Beside each one
A tick.

These are the names no more.

Scrawled at the bottom
In a hurried hand,
It simply reads
Me.

Who could have seen such mayhem
On this mild, mid May morning?

The day of the man's escape."