Silenced.
Entombed within swirling walls
of an ebony dam
constructed of abandonment
by a bucktoothed crew
dedicated to detail.
Unmoved
by my kicking and screaming
they gnawed me to little bits
to make me fit
and sealed me up
with cynical saliva.
Busy beavers lapped
at every seam
to ensure every beam
bounced into oblivion.
Trapped
kept from speech
and blinded by eyes
that ceaselessly leak
no sound save the roar
of ever twisting walls,
this lone mute awaits
deliverance or death.
I may be blind, deaf and dumb,
but I know neither will come
until tourists have had their fill
and pay the beavers'
burgeoning bill.
Needy and greedy
their paws demand grease
as I pray for release
ever silently.
Where are hungry hunters
when you need them?
Of course, the game will be rancid,
but surely pelts of pride
are so overinflated
they make the warmest of coats.
What I really need
is a shotgun toting
flannel-breasted savior
to set me free
whether it be
into this world or the next.
What's that you say?
They aren't true beavers?
See no evil
hear no evil
speak no evil…
mum's the word.



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