The line is long.
Am I in the right queue?
Why do they use those stretchy barriers?
Why does the queue next to me seem to be moving faster?
Security checks. Everywhere you go, look or turn, a security check.
Look at the cameras and the border control officials, do they have to queue?
Shuffle movement up ahead.
Tinny old time music playing on a loop.
How many times do I have to hear "The wheel of fortune"? It goes round, I get it. Unlike this **** line, it's not going straight, curved, zig zag or anywhere, I swear if Kay Starr doesn't shut up about that ******* wheel I'll staple her to one and roll her down a hill.
No, wait, she's dead, ******.
Wait, the line is moving, yes!
End of the queue coming up, oh look a poster "Anything to declare?"
Does boredom count?
If yes follow the red line,if no proceed through the green exit.
Yes, finally, green for me.
NO, I've nothing to declare, stop, take me back to the green exit.

The wheel of fortune goes spinning around
The music stops, a tinny voice is heard
"Welcome to purgatory. Your stay is dependent upon truth, honesty and atonement. Please conduct any queries or questions via your religious belief system and representatives"

Fifty shades of Grey was a movie I watched today.
I'd read the book so thought I'd take a look.
I wish I'd stayed away.

Deep down in the depths of my ****** veneer,
I hear my name.

Do I answer or just stay here nestled in the vapour of Lethe?
Oblivion has merits, concealment of self in still water.

Aimlessly, carelessly swirling in drowsy drug fuelled forgetfulness.
Before we die we drink this water and pass on unhindered.

Ties are undone, people and places, completely erased
to be reincarnated, entering flesh again.

My name again is called, and with this sound comes memories.
I want to stay on the shore of Lethe. But, no.

Selfishness pulls me back to sight and sound
I am dead amongst the living.

I
am
not
here.
Blank
spaces.
Ruinous
remnants.
**Completes
desolation.

To be free would be fine

But then we write a line

And we are tied to ink

As babies are by milk

Images dance behind eyelids

And words are formed, onto paper they slid

Slid through the ink to the nib of the pen

Not knowing when images and words are unbound again.

I've not been outside for 100 days.
100 days of self imprisonment,
like a bird in a cage, though the bird was forced,
I have sentenced myself.
I try to go out but the outside wins,
it whispers warnings on the wind, it rustles its rudeness in the trees leaves, it sends a crow to caw, telling me to close the door and stay in.