The wind blows,

An arm, a leg,

Drift apart,

The slightest breeze,

Enough,

To cause a quivering,

In the spine,

And in the space,

Where heart should be.

 

A life of wrong turnings,

Longing, yearning,

Each day, separate, a mini-life,

Cast about, cast away,

Each morning to lie,

Destroyed, to die.

A thousand thoughts converge,

A thousand inward-pointing knives,

The race is run, lost, gone,

Never won,

And I dare not,

Dare not face another face.

 

Leave me only this,

My captive misery,

And I will work it like dough,

Knead it, need it.

 

And give rise to a planned darkness,

Where small rooms can be built,

Walls within walls,

Room for one,

As with clanking toilet pail,

I shuffle,

Abandoning all hope of ability, of nature,

Hidden from the light.