A man whom was free, open and alive
In love; a happy man, no struggles to survive.
His world torn down, mind encased
In concrete and steel; happiness now replaced
With confusion, fear and sadness.
A mind once filled with colour now bleeds with blackness.
Each day a repeat, the thoughts replayed
Swallowing his strength, his motivation now frayed.
Only whispers in the shadows filling him with lies
Can’t see true reality; what is right before his eyes.
Doesn’t want to see the movement of the world
Gained comfort in the wine he swirled
Continually he refilled the glass –
An easy way to stay incarcerated
Locked into living in the past.
The steel bars are cold against his cheeks
But not as cold as the tears he weeps.
Nightmares run day and night – no release;
Especially not when he sleeps.
For his mind is the dungeon
The confusion – the chains on his feet.
The pain and sadness dragging him closer
To his demise he will meet.
Each day as cold and dark
No way to escape; for a fresh start.
The only way for relief was to depart
Break free from the mental prison
The pulsing pain of his broken heart.
He could fly from the ceiling
Or land on a rock –
Whatever it would take to stop the ticking of the clock.
There had to be another way
That would allow him to stay
Connected to the world, to those that cared
If only he knew how to share
The thoughts and questions
That ran through his mind
That made the happiness
So hard to find.
He sat on the floor
Cross legged, eyes closed
And back against the door.
His mind became quiet
As the hope inside him grows.
Eyes open and upon his return
A gift uncovered, one before he could not discern.
He rose to his feet and grasped the shovel’s handle
To find the weakest spot, had to light more candles.
Began to dig at the soil floor
As all other exits were blocked
Had to create his own door.
He dug day and night, each day he grew closer
To the freedom and happiness he longed for
Never did the shovel swing slower.
Some days he would strike rock or
Be showered with dirty water;
But his resolve stayed strong
His motivation would never falter.
Dug for months it seemed, in complete blackness
No candles to guide his travels, no need for exactness.
His tunnel turned and twisted, ran for miles
Was as if his cell no longer existed; all he could do was smile.
His arms now weak, back now strained
The final blow; sunshine washed over
In sweet relief he was rained.
The path nowhere near to being complete
No longer against the voices he will compete
But for now, the incarceration was over
He could begin to live life again.
writing, my writing, poetry