How Fitting

I decided to post my poems again, except these will be from the Escape Artist project. Enjoy them while they’re up, I’ll delete these within a year!

 

He sits at his desk and…

picking up his pen, he opens

his book and stares at the blanks.

 

He turns on some music and…

picking up his pen, he opens

his book and stares again.

 

He paces the room and…

twirling his pen, he looks

into his reflection and wonders.

 

The continuity of this perverse ritual-

sit, stand, pace, sit, stand, etc.-

has him grinding his teeth.

 

Cutting sleep from his diet and

adding coffee to it, he now

retains a feeling of where the edge is.

 

But does it help? Can he honestly

justify the means? The words

flow in and out in a thick swirl;

 

he can’t seem to make any

sense of them. “Hold on,” a

gentle voice reaches his ears.

 

Something on the edge of a whisper

breaches the fortified cell surrounded

by countless letters wanting to take form.

 

“Hold on,” it repeats as he searches

for the source. A chilled breeze

caresses his flesh, but he doesn’t shiver.

 

The whisper sings gently, following

another breath of crisp air;

making his very core shudder.

 

He looks outside, the sky was

lighter- day broke during his isolation-

light and yet, very grey. He sniffs

 

the air and smirks. A drizzle

begins and he sits back down, placing

his pen on paper as the rain begins.

 

“I’m right here.”

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