Trapped as the mime,
Inside four walls.
You scream,
A frightened sobbing scream,
Echoing back to you.
As the sound devours,
And the conscience does not forgive
The foolishness of your hedonism.
The hurt comes,
From Soul and Hand.
But mostly from the absence of pain,
Rendering you rictus.
Curled up, nestling away
From cushioned, leisurely survival.
Nothing to despair in,
Save from the confections of your head.
Sanguinem animarum.