Where is the wild?

Nine bean rows... Will I die in this urban life? Will I ever be in the wild again? Where is the quiet, and the dark? Where does the water flow with joy and peace, clean and fresh? Why must it be this way? Why do I not adapt? Why does it not change, or progress? Why don't I progress? Where will it end? How will I carry on, and on, and on? Thinking of all the others who are thrust into horrid lives, through no choice of their own making, I cringe at my own weakness and apparent unappreciation. Of all the pleasantries of urban existence. Sometimes the tiger will just lay down and die. Mostly, her body forces her to eat and breathe. The lucky one escapes, even though locked behind the bars, with the faces staring in and the lights all on, always. There is no more wild, but in her heart, she sees the wild.