Here I am, A Lion in the Zoo. All meals ready packed. Adventure no longer on the table . Those primal days, running on uncertain ground are now a story board, caught on a poster laid out before my cage. Needs are catered for apart from the need to express myself and to explore. Discovery unnecessary. The cage provides unchanging landscape
Sometimes out of boredom I open my mouth and roar. Passers by look up and say, “He’s really wild”. But I am not wild. Wild is a memory: an instinct. I am a pacing thing caught in limbo and living for display. That place I never knew. That vanishing land of untended wilderness where chance still rules and safety is a moment of reprieve is unknown to me. My father knew it . My mother did. but I did not.
Born by design, and living on cement, I’ve heard of tales around the watering hole. Of primal running across unmapped terrain. Of life and death instinctively approached. Of scent caught on the wind. The thrill of chasing and pride felt at the kill. Heard of charging through the undergrowth: of grass and thorns and sleeping under trees.
I see men walking by, pale of eye who talk of life behind the glass. Of instincts curbed for the common good and experience measured out in bite sized lumps. I see their spirits muted to the core and wonder how their lives resemble mine. Cured of nature and far from natural homes. Are they me in different circumstance, but caged within their own conditioning.