Thursday, 4 February 2016


The wind howls in an open corridor,
caged like a bird but singing nonetheless—
it seeks not an escape from the confines—
but to wreak terror on the terrestrial testing that trapped it there.

The clouds part and the jailer appears,
grinning sadistically, keys in hand—
the sentence is simply existence—
and the sounds can barely escape the wind through all of the seeping shade.

It has prepped its face for a death,
an unkind death, swift and stiff—
It will become as rigid as a floorboard—
and you will hear it creak at night when all the little lights go out at once.

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