Seasonally Affected

The doors are closing.

A slit of light remains;

mere moments until

it rains.


I will hear the loud clap

of locks

me, shocked in stocks


picking at my own skin

for ink

hatching marks

scratching in the dark

mumbling refrains.

Blood fills the tank

Flood in the dank


drowning in my own

gurgled breath.

Only the rope

with the noose

holds the truth

if I want to escape


The first robins’ egg

will dry it up,

no giving up

when the sun

shines once more.

The door will swing wide,

I’ll step outside,

squinting, weak

and likely unfit for release.

Published in: on September 20, 2010 at 10:04 pm  Comments (1)  
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