Larks of the Oak Tree

Held captive in the womb of society,

An outline is wrapped up in cotton wool worry

With the constant observation of a buzzard's glare.

An amniotic sack of suffocating,

Regurgitated stale air; a haze of empty

Gazes escape through the confines of bay windows.

A waiting game commences; the pawns are moved

In an attempt to secure a premature birth,

Concepts of life not developed enough to sustain.

When days turn to weeks in the blink of an eye,

It takes only one wink to overlook the truth;

Reintroduced to the world through the system's loopholes.

But only flesh, blood and bone can thrive out there,

Paper and feathers toss and tumble in the wind

with a breeze so harsh they can't notice they're drifting.

Sustenance however must be acquired;

Guided back to the nest from which they had once fled

Their feathers clipped and wings bandaged for the time being.

A momentary pause from the song of life

Before they are reborn and welcomed back into

The fold, to sing the hymn that is expected of them.