i am not an animal because
i hope, i dream, i create, i predict.
i am sentient:
and in perceiving all the wrongs that are done,
mammalian instinct rises.
there is no work, no food, no warmth
so this winter,
it's time to hibernate.
in the power of subjective consciousness
there is no rescue,
and imagination serves only
to tantalize:
what is it to have promise?
i eat narratives for breakfast,
feast on lies from men whose generation
fought a war and were rewarded.
my generation
wages war for their morals,
fought for resources we can't obtain.
our reward
is to hide like animals
deep in burrows,
seeking tunnels darker and safer
to live out the winter.