Degrees like minutes
momentarily we see
gathering thin air.
Painting by John Constable, 'Study of a cloud sky', c. 1825, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Degrees like minutes
momentarily we see
gathering thin air.
Painting by John Constable, 'Study of a cloud sky', c. 1825, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
There is the normal shock
that consumes the soul
upon arriving in a new reality
bare, with no traces
of a former life-line-perforated-
into breath and blink
inside out.
You can open your eyes,
your mouth,
as the four walls
close in-for walls
box, cell or plaster
made to contain
or hold-
back-then
This is It,
all that is needed to
eat, sleep, repeat
every day, what were seasons and
shades no longer define a time, a space
like black and white, day to night,
all began bleeding
grey. The light only hurts
open wounds, such as eyes and mouth.
This much
Less, is more
deserved
when sentenced
for Life
without color, without a soul, without a window,
with a reflection of nothing that was, is
held inside
with only the wait
for Freedom
that releases
the fear from inside out
but chooses to stay.
Artwork credit: 'Acta Apostolorum (Acts of the Apostles)', Plate numbered 27, The Conversion of the Warder; to left, St Paul and Silas kneel in their prison cell; the prison warder descends the steps leading to the open doors of the cell, his sword drawn; behind him two other armed men follow, bearing torches; to far right, figures congregate on a flight of stairs. 1582 by the British Museum, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...