Transparent seconds tick away,
mumbling their progression.
Filtered cigarettes and coffee,
both staining fingertips.
Enough time has passed,
yet still sober thought
circulates in such a way
that I do not feel the blades
of the fan in the room.
A facade has been erected.
A sort of wall, a kind of defence.
Pretending that limitless
possibilities are open for me.
Privacy I once cherished
is a memory no longer
active in the daily reactionary
tones of being in this prison.
In and out, and out and in,
the professional experts
affirm and stipulate the
terms of my existence.
Prodding, touching, measuring.
Advising, compelling, warning.
Their repetitious bleating
draining the spirit.
I glance with longing
at the passageway of doors,
knowing that all but one
is locked and firmly sealed.
Hope. Yes, have hope.
Be the glass half full,
but acknowledge that
is is also half empty.
Somewhere in between
the two points of view
lies my truth.