The Straw Man

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 my 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,
Rooms for one,
As with clanking toilet pail,
I shuffle,
Abandoning all hope of ability, of nature,
Hidden from the light.

 

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