It's like looking through a keyhole
the first time you look; black
you don't understand, so
you walk away
but you look again
your eyes adjust
realization washes over you
but that's only the first break in the riptide.
Not true perception.
The next moment you see clouds
and the flooded floor
but is it acid
or saline?
There's something lying on the ground
a wounded dog?
No.
But a wounded soul
nails digging into hair and skin.
"It's just a headache"
they would say
If they were on your side of the door
but peeking through the keyhole
you can see the demons.

Iron.
That's what you recognize as the scent of the cell
It doesn't repulse you
It draws you in
like blue electric light.
Chains start to scratch your ears
yelling and moaning fill your head
but you're not frightened
you're not frightened.

The last sense is the one you burn for
to touch
to help and to hug
to comfort them,
Bur your not trying to help them
you came here for yourself
you want them to help you
you thought seeing this broken bone could help.
Release you
from your cell.
Did it?
If only for a little while.
Do you feel better?
Back to your burning cell
you return to flames.
You would trade your prison for theirs in a heartbeat
and they would greedily take
the key from your hands.
They want to feel that burnng
but it can't be
So will you ever return now?
Just for envy?
For longing?
Or peace in misery?
They would.
It is a poets nature
to keep returning to those memories of burning
If not for an instant
then never.
Because that's what happens
when you peep through another's keyhole.