of slumber

Slumber –
like a cobweb;
its thin strands
straying into
your days.
A sickly feeling.
You’re tired
of doing nothing.
Yet so tired
you can hardly move.

 

of answers

Words languishing
on yellowing paper,
corners rusted brown.
Today,
among ancient diaries
I found an old letter.
Undelivered. Written
a day or
a century ago.
it doesn’t matter
anymore. The letter
that was never sent.
Between its writing
and reading,
time cracks
as my questions
find their own answers

of prisoners

They’re all bound and chained.
Allowed to breathe
one prisoner at a time.
Admiration’s a darling.
Love is allowed outside a lot.

The others squirm
and fight to be free;
they struggle for air.
If they bother you too much
You tighten the knot.

You keep Indignation,
Contempt, and Revulsion
in separate cells
and give them no food
or water or air.

But Resentment isn’t that easy to control.