Have you heard the rumours?
Sung by the oak,
They tell of greener pastures,
Beyond this ring of smoke,
Where trees are great in number,
Left all alone,
While roads are lain by branches
Though nothing's set in stone.
So come all young monsters,
Out to the cold,
Run away from the demons,
Created by the old.
They grasp towards the skyline,
Spreading down the fields,
They'll try hard to catch us,
Sway us to their molds.
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Comments about this poem (The Cage by Craig Jordan )
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