Dungeon (for J.S.B.)

We picture them shackled to walls, Their dilapidated forms, Those sunken eyes, We feel so dazed, Wondering what those creatures did. But every year, Their captors bring in that camera, Fake holly, pine needles. To show the folks at home, They’re in Christmas spirits. See? No shackles. What the film captures: Hard, morphed faces. Unrecognizable, Even to their owners. Eyes, expressions, stances Looking for altercation It’s not something you want to send home. The Poet is aware of these changes, Possibly more than others. When he stood over that man, So close to kill, With so much want, One question stopped him: Could he write With blood on his paper? Another image, less staged than our bit Of holiday cheer, one picture You should try to see, The Poet sprawled in that hole, So morphed, so removed That humanity doesn’t Recognize him as their own Words make the only sense, As he contemplates how In that moment, He felt like God, And instead of a rival He saw a man, With a life, Family, A million other qualities That make him human, And the Poet human. Even as they lead the Poet away To a place of pure insanity, To test his life and will, We still see: A creature in a cell, Not shackled, Though might as well be. But that creature, Picks up a pen. His hand swoops across paper, And he realizes, He has changed. His face, his eyes, should never appear With a holiday greeting. But in that cell, Surrounded by shimmering wire Arid badlands, Concrete walls, Blocking out vast desert skies, That creature, Written off, Is crafting images Releasing his mind With words.