Jailer’s Lament

Imagine a castle far away from here,

where they can’t come in.

I’ll build red fleshy bricks from the muscles

of my arms, my shoulders, my back, my legs.

I’ll sacrifice movement for a

quivering image of safety.

Lock me in here with bolts

carved from my spine,

and as your hammer lands

each heavy beat sends a jolt through my blood.

What held me up now holds me in.

It wasn’t for us this world of sin,

where goodness bends to die

and hope mutters incantations

behind the bars of its golden cage.

May her whispers open doors to a garden

where cowering is needless,

and all threats are vanquished

under a flaming sword.

Until then we whisper of laziness

and chosen despair,

pull the instruments of change from our bones

to erect walls and barbed wire,

cut off our lips to stuff into our ears.

 

Poor dears,

our world has become a pit of jailers

holding ourselves at gunpoint

wondering why no one speaks up.

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