Sestina: For King Kong
The fog of Skull Island: Your only cage.
You swung branches untouched by axe or age.
Your mammoth size: Left for dull minds to gauge.
Only foolish legions dared tempt your rage.
They pronounced you King, the food chain your stage.
You were at home and free from wars to wage.
Still the director had a task to wage.
The camera crew: Equipped with reels and cage.
Their heart: At fair actress of film and stage.
They trekked past shores of a land before age.
They pushed beyond storms of Pacific rage.
Hollywood: Always eager to engage.
Alas, the vast trees proved too thick to gauge.
The vines questioned if it was worth their wage.
The men all bubbled with a quiet rage.
More than anger, their fears would know no cage.
Creatures crawled, climbed, and slithered without age.
Horrors flew above prehistory’s stage.
Still the natives summoned you to their stage.
Harsh rhythms of the tom-tom served to gage.
Piercing shrieks helped highlight her youthful age.
You stood stroking her hair, a fitting wage.
Charging the cape of night, you grinned a cage.
Your yellow teeth: Bars to hold back your rage.
And still, they dared contain your rage.
I see you, beneath bright spotlights onstage.
Prying lenses flashing awe off your cage.
Eyes full of surprise, fright too much to gauge.
It was then they knew it was worth the wage.
Behold: Spectacle of the modern age.
The crowds crowned you Monster to every age.
Towering anxious, you beat your chest with rage.
Roaring a thousand hells, you sought your wage.
I see you, snapping bars, stepping onstage.
Screams fill the hall, volume too much to gauge.
You can’t hold a continent in a cage.
Your rage fell offstage to the biplane’s gauge.
In the wage of your dreams, you knew no cage.
More than beauty, you were killed by the age.