by scraps of paragraphs
that make up a faux suicide note
addressed to all the neglectful souls
who left this wounded fox to survive
on his own in the woods.
His home has always been close
to the two apple trees
that grew enough to provide food and shelter,
despite their roots suffering from rot
and the farmer concentrating
more on the hen house.
There’s a high mortality rate
for those who try to escape the life drawn
on an oracle deck of captivity.
Making the most of the temporary
moments of therapy
is the only control he has, then.
But taking a gamble
on a clear country road
could turn his fleece to ash.
Until the next deadly contraption.