Monday, 30 January 2012

From behind the wall

It gets said a lot, a door closes, a door opens,
Stuff that stifles also frees up, what’s the difference?
There are walls all around me, razor wires, scrap metal,
Porous stone and concrete, the ruins of a silence.

Did you come to me with a rose-petal velvet
Hope crimson at the edges? Well, don’t give up just yet.
Though the colours bleach as you move towards the centre
And though seeping away doesn’t quite mean quiet.

It gets thought a lot, and the balance of trust
Always quivers in the middle, and not just at first.
The black bend of bars showing up corners of sunlight
For exactly what it is, the broad slices, the cut and thrust.

Did you come to me thinking you’d be my freedom?
Or I’d add up and presently turn out the same sum.
And we’d sit matching the totals? Don’t discount it just yet.
But right now the fine needle trembles at lonesome.

It gets said a lot, but nothing really gets done.
The same doors close after they once creak open.
Did you come to me thinking some key was magical?
Don’t throw it out just yet.  But this is not the prison.
 

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