The Wild Animals Rose Up

The wild animals rose up and complained about the lack of respect, in a furious row, they beat their chests and pulled out their hair, about the unfairness of their treatment. Blind hatred ran through their bloodshed eyes, as their masters who had unleashed them, kicked them in their guts, back to the muddy ditch. They spit foam filled words, lost in the rage of their voices. I stood by and observed their helpless anger. The calmer lot of them, had climbed out of the gutter years ago. Here were left the riffraff who felt entitled to the thrones and bones of greater dogs above them, but they got stumps instead, which served them better. I was completely indifferent to the pack of rats that crawled in their filth, not capable perhaps, not trained, not guided with strict enough leashes. Their words were incoherent, but words to them were intelligence already, entitlements. All the dogs feel entitled. All the lots kicking down the doors, and when they get hit in the face, and lay on the wet asphalt, crying, they are filled with anger once more. Beating a drum, their fear their reason, their beliefs their words, and each time again, they find them selves locked out. They feel the hand of compassion and slam it, cause they don't need it. When they search to get up, they find the steps too high, and with indignation they curse the lack of hands reached out to them.