Thursday, May 21, 2009

A Cold Kind of Freedom

Between these palms the cold steel of freedom.
These four walls, the calcium rust of release is
Dripping, drying, dripping.
-I never wanted this-

Insulated away from the hard edge of facts.
In the subtle tastes, in the stagnant air,
Growing in me, letting go.
-I hear it scratching-

Time passes here in scrawled etchings.
Numbers lose their form and drip out into
Things, words, meanings, nothings
-I go numb within it-

Ghosts pass by, they can not reach here,
These bars keep them at bay, keep them
Drifting, fading, clouded.
-I am safe in here-

Sounds are under water here.
Uniforms walk by, the sound of their steps
Filling, cov'ring, drowning me in sleep.
-I was never guilty-

Murder can not find this place.
Nothing can find this place, memories
keep going, slipping, gone.
-I can't feel the pain-

This slab takes a piece of me every night.
The tick of time, the cold steel, take
More and more and more.
-I am these walls-

The face is a distant foggy memory.
It never happened, and I am calcium rust,
Dripping, drying, dripping.
-I am home-

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