Running frantically wild, frenetically chased,
by an unnamed loved one,
through alien jungle.
Each leaf and branch super enlarged as though I am made miniature.

In an overgrown, enlarged plantation, unfamiliar.
Thrashing away each bright green plantation,
to escape, or not to be found.
A pounding desire to be left alone,
To be lost in this jungle.

Then I give up, or am found or accept they follow.
So I stop, and so they stop.
And I lead them to last night’s feast of roast chicken,
That I cooked over camp fire.

I watch them eat. They gorge.
They are starved.
So new to this entrapment game.
So hungry now.

As I watch, I hear the booming mind of the entrapper.
Do I wish them to join, in perpetual chase, or to remain alone?

Song of Los by Apparat, my head’s soundtrack.
Black Mirror S4 E4, my mind’s inspiration.
(A final line is omitted by the author.)