The Alien

The alien sits in its cell and waits

For the curing call it knew would not come.

Cloved within its speciesist cell it wastes.

The vagrant voice drones its melodic hum.

A lone crack in its heart pitters quicker

As an orphan beats his drum for a king.

Loaded down on a lachrymal liquor

As it staggers up to the throne to sing.

Now it awakens out of its black dreams

Of a red mirror shining of evil.

From behind its bars of malignancy,

It swallows its fate as saccharine pills.

And the alien raises its head like

A sunflower toward a visceral sun.