The world he lives in is small.
Black waves lap at the shores of vapid sand
As clouds hold their place overhead.
The promises etched on his spine,
In the most faraway places —
He couldn't read them.
He runs his hands along the pale green barrier,
Feeling its imperfections sprint along
His fingertips.
The walls close in — and it's sad here.
He screams, he screams,
Each gasp a breath of tombstone air,
Each thrash an electric abstinence from thought.
What flavours describe the tendrils of his soul?
The red-stained weeds that grew over bare feet
Now trap him.
There is poetry to be found in a little life,
But the gravity of supposition weighed too heavy.
So he sits — counting the dark stars.
The walls close in — and it's sad here.
Part of my book, The Good Knight & His Sore Rose.
