Doing Time

June 10, 2017

The jailer turns and passes through a shone hard ray of light

Burning along like fire the dire and coffin-square enclave

Palled full of darkness-dormered souls, abort of inclination;

It bursted in from outside rare where ebullient air revives

Asthmatic breaths

An alien sojourner with us, and fleeting friend; stylus with hand

Of brightness tearing out rococo cares; from off bare walls

Making a great assault on empty hearts - commanding curtain calls

Reprises, long encores, yet more, and yet not so

I drum solo

Dispose into bed a wool-boll head, mind-cauterised

Thought-staunched: here tethered blow a listless rose

Of bloomy sleep, so in a heap of cheap composure find

Relief among detention

So sudden! - mention physics an attention, as behold a sun!

Breaking, and glutting wakefulness; arrives shakes strait confinement:

T’is day again - and purgatory.

A place of waiting, evasive restless agitation, smoothed

With artifice in soothing, groomed imaginations bringing down

A dampening so my signal sighs shall stop

Next cell-call tells-out tears that trickle, cutting like a scythe

Through temples armed with ardours of a heart formed fortitude

Subdued; accruing ever-desolate refrains

Commiserate to cut into incisions wounds

Keenly the new blue skies in stormy violet-grey eyes, are mocked

And jested, sorely thwarted; turned then in on homo-sapiens

Upon day’s woebegones

Time’s sported vagabonds;

Fears seared by sheer dear glories of immense celestial glare

There troupes out there unlettered peoples, coped in busy thoughts

Cooped pigeonholed co-opted, on a falsely free-range leash

Bearing their sunlit birthrights baffled, blind of interest;

Nor near an insight’s half-a-smidgen seeking reason

High on a stair, high here behold a jailer lingering; failure

Wears his besieged seat-creased demeanour, cannot set us free

‘The sentencing for debt protracted may not be revoked’, he sadly joshes,

My eyes distend; rough beads like beds unmade; a bursted open page;

Ho, ho, ho, ho.  

But freedom there shall be; there is a way – to heaven propels

Close-troubled pined internments; imprisoned vision traces

On silent walls the liquid lines of dew run slowly down

To pool as living waters;  

Plunges out then and breathlessly hope’s westward lightsome barge

And age comes sweeping seawardly consumes in sun at last