The Jungle
By alberto215
Primal drums from atavistic jungles pound The beat of adrenaline laced blood in my ears resounds This instinctive urge to conquer fear, desire, self Flight or fight the moment of my self defining day In these modern times of ennui and enlightenment The same instincts compel me, propel me, to that mighty jungle of trees or buildings or the quiet walls of a small simple room Walking among the cold empty faces that wander In the deadly industrial bush Or staring at the walls of a lonely room, to contemplate my ways In and out among them Those faces once familiar, now anonymous Fight or flight? Where, the next turn along this ever changing route? That pushes me along, back to my cell, cyclical daily routine that draws from my bowels that gutteral urge to shout. Enough!What style am I using here?Am I too pretentious with the vocabulary? Written January 17th, 1999 © on Oct 08 2001 12:22 PM PST, Alberto 18 • 0 • 1
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"Primal drums from atavistic jungles pound..."