They walk
With their eyes
Climbing the fences
Whilst staring 
At the 
Green green grass
Below
So close
And yet so utterly
Out of reach 
The spectre
Of their once-wings
Ruffle
Below their over starched
Shirts
And their fingers
Twitch 
With the ancient memory
Of freedom
They bend 
At the knees
And waist 
Like all good servants
And hiss and curse
Under their breath
But their failure 
Is all their own
And though they mask
Their chains 
With jewels and gold
The weight they bare
Twists them crookedly
Down to face 
The dirty earth 
In a cruel irony 
For they so despise
The thing
They must look at the most
And all the while 
They fail to notice
It was from this
That they
Were born
It is this
That makes them
Whole and pure
It is this
That allows them
To breathe