A bat in the cave, yearning to go out in the night, 

but he stays chained to a home that isn’t his:

a prisoner suspended from a ghostly stalactite.

There’s a part of me that wishes I could rip off my own wings.

I want them to tumble to the ground, limp and sad;

I want them to know the emotion that resting instead of flying brings. 

The sensation of air coursing through me is cruel,

and I’ve learned to hate walking on clouds.

Though I’ve flown high, to the ground, I’m a fool.

Reaching the stars has, to me, become expected.

I want to learn to feel proud again,

but I fear that pride will only come when I’m dead. 

I fear that no one will miss the bat himself but rather watching him.

I fear that they’ll miss him for his aerial performances.

I fear they’ll forget his heart; I fear they’ll forget him. 

There’s a pity bestowed upon bats enamored by the sun,

like cheetahs born to hide but forced to run. 

An animal who defies Mother Nature’s intention is an ending already begun.