someone thinks you're made of metal, doesn't think of tasting you

i see life in a way

in a way that,

what is the purpose of writing? if not the attempt at captivating what's fleeting?

isn't it a disservice? isn't it outright evil, fucked up? to want to lock something away,

what is the purpose of, captivating what's on its toes, swift on the air?

now i don't feel like writing.

though my writing is never a zoo,

there never is a barrier excluding you,

you're in it, but lucky for you,

lion perceives the car and the human as one.

me, on the other hand i don't conceive the lion,

i see the same old thing.