By Amy Mundell

When hunting from the bottom,
it’s where you must reside;
snooping under gutterways
to get a glimpse inside.

Inside the lives of others,
so different from their own.
Mental spaces occupied
with things which they can’t hone.

So staring at those feet all day—
can drive them quite insane;
wondering where they went so wrong,
whilst drowning in the rain.

Eventually their hand darts out
towards a shiny shoe;
glinting in the evening sun—
of vibrant, orange hue.

Hoping that that shining light,
might cast a spell on them,
though fingertip still missed its mark,
ghosting over hem.

Yet touch of warmness was enough,
to spark a fire within.
To one day catch a hold of one
and ride it out that bin.

To one day see the world above—
be a foot that just walks passed;
leaving all their gloom behind—
firmly in their past.

Their hands continue darting out,
but others step away;
only gifting spare-change touch,
at the very peak of day.

Finally they find an out,
a thing that makes feet turn,
tempting them all closer
as the fire ever burns.

A window slowly opens—
the manhole cracked and fell;
open to the sky above—
a frog within a well.

The light they think is sunlight—
artificial as themselves;
superficial praises won from
superficial selves.

They tilt at the fluorescent—
that gaudy neon glow;
craving every scrap of light,
which others might bestow.

But followers are fireflies—
small candles in the dark;
flickering out rapidly
without a constant spark.

So when that spark is caustic
and causes others pain,
grabbing at their victims feet
to trip them once again—

it means that they start hunting
and that they’ll never stop—
for once they’ve brought one close enough
they’ll never let it drop.

For fireflies love fires—
kept far away from them.
So when they see a foot held fast,
they only check their hem.

With less and less feet passing—
that hand tightens its hold.
Refusing to release it,
even though they kick and scold.

That foot becomes their lifeline—
it’s all that they can see;
falling back to that first hope
of finally being free.

They tried to change their lifestyle,
but got lost in neon maze;
sinking back into that gloom—
imagining their days.

The foot that keeps on thrashing—
can sometimes still make bail;
running off to brighter paths—
avoided without fail.

Yet other times they falter.
Their faces hit the dirt—
feeling fingers climbing up,
pulling at their skirt.

They sink beneath the surface.
The light becomes a dream.
Dragged right to the bottom—
breaking at the seam.

Those hands still failed to reach the light—
they think their victim weak;
hunting for a stronger foe
to drag them from beneath.

Thoughts of victim’s welfare,
will never cross their mind.
The only thing they care about
is leaving murk behind.

They think that it’s their circumstance
which forged that steadfast cage;
but really it’s their attitude,
which keeps them from front page.

Their belief that someone’s pain,
could ever be a key—
paints a picture of a person
who will never truly see.

Never see the damage—
never see their lie—
they’ll always stay within that cage,
as others just walk by.

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