He was, you know, a beautiful child.
Neon-eyed, innocent, at one with the world.
A little inflamed, hyperactive, of course
But only because he had just discovered his wings
And his feathers were becoming stiff enough to fly.
Not a danger to the world. All he had done
was to discover that he was alive.

They have taken out the source of his life force.
They feed him a synthetic analogue, intravenously
in small, safe doses.
He sits inert against the wall of his cage
Dead-eyed, cuneiform, adrenalectomized.
They have cut off his wings.
If he behaves well and obeys their rules
They let him have his wings back for a short while,
Not for use in the sky, you understand,
They let him fly a few feet in a small enclosure.

Why did you do it, my brethren? Why so cold?
Did you sever his wings because you have none?