Cold and still, motionless
unless you caress its rapid fire.
Swaddled in an old fleece jacket
stained with pellets of sweat;
suppressed in darkness, weeping some say.
Restricted freedom and tears
bonded together barely by passionate rage.
A caged door open to a bird not willing to fly
without being coached into the sun.
A lifetime failing to rise above tortured circumstances;
concealed and loaded with enough artillery
to blast through mountainous rocks holding dreams captive
while listening to elevator music.
Anticipating the chance to advance
and prove to the world its worth and power;
secretly feeling small and empty,
surrounded by a pulse and heartbeat
and a world of knowledge and sadness.
Standing in a long line of trigger happy masters
eager to kill with words.