Saturday, December 20, 2008

Featured Writer: Tim Morris Day 2

The Prisoner


in the rain.

twelve rupees sit heavily
in my pocket
and i can finally
walk the garden
with my head held high,

but still...
i find it necessary
to peel flesh
from around my fingernails
and suck at the blood.

the moon...
ah, the moon,
her virgin hole not yet
pricked by indiscretion,
stretches lazily from
around the corner,
uncertain of her true conviction.

the air,
lays like lead on my skin
and a hunger swells
in my veins.

fingering the coins in my pocket,
one for each of the twelve pairs
of blood-stained lips,
i find myself at a table,
twisted and tired,
eager to be of use,

but i see the chains,
rusted and sanguinary,
and am afraid,
because the promise
has proven to be fraud...

in the shadows,
soothed by night's lithe fingers,
children dance to kalimba music,
the beauty of their laughter
an atrocity.