He focused. He surely focused. It wasn't apathy or poor reasoning,
but rather an inevitable lack of control which insolently maimed.
He was a quick witted boy, or so he wished he was. In truth he had no wit,
only withering passion which kept the candle lit as he struggled to find his name.
He was slower than the multitude - the arrogant lot of honest knaves. Slower in mind and in purpose,
and he was losing the game. So he hoped and pleaded and begged for sun - but everlasting was the pall of rain.
In aggression he had hoped he'd find his answer, and in regression and a hatred in his otherwise meek heart,
he lashed out against the ones who poked and played. The quick witted boys as foolish as he to pry a rod into an
agitated snake. But with all of them gone, would his newly born purpose not roll aside him in his premortem grave?
He pondered these things and grasped at his scalp. He screamed a lonely echoe which rebounded off the facets of his cage.
No, a robin he seemed to be - an attraction. A robin with strange discoloration and broken wings and all heaven was in a rage.
He soon found the answer - that the answer wasn't there. At least not for him - not for his wishful hopes of kind quality
and circumstance fair. He realized everyone in this world had a purpose, and his purpose was to be absent of one.
He was a reference of comparison for those higher.
He'd remain the impulsive snake for no other advantage was there to claim. He'd remain the robin imprisoned
by nature's chains. And eventually, as birds and snakes to eachother do prey, perhaps he'll swallow himself whole in an entitling paradox
and nature will share his pain.