The Prison Beneath the Skin

I pity the spiders forced to fight,  
torn from their webs, thrown into battles
they never chose, their fragile legs grasping at life
while other hands decide their own fate.  

I was never fond of them, and I never will be,  
but fear does not blind me to their suffering.  
They do not seek harm, only survival,  
yet they are crushed beneath thoughtless hands.  

But deeper still is the sorrow I feel  
for birds who have never touched the sky.  
Trapped behind cold metal bars,  
they sing songs of longing, not knowing why.  

A bird has wings because it is meant to be free,  
to chase the wind, to ride the open air.  
Yet some are born in cages so small  
that freedom is nothing but an empty word.  

And if the door were opened one day,  
would they even know to leave?  
Would they trust the sky above them,  
or stay where the world feels safe?  

Perhaps the cruelest prison of all  
is the one that teaches you never to fly.