P.O.W.

The Invisible Tyrant.

He haunts my day’s dreams,

spits fire from his eyes; a merciless king.

He shelters Pride’s silence, and savors my pleas,

he coddles the darkness that tackles my screams;

severs them slowly, looks on- “Let them bleed.”

The king licks his lips as red seeps through stone.

The dungeon is ghostly, and I am alone.

Parched bones whither-

through cracked throat push their moans.

A chill down my spine calls Hope to its home.

Could you imagine!

A bow with no quiver-

But one day I’ll find it,

And mountains will shiver,

when the wind screams and throws me-

Wherever!

(I claim no right to, no command of the weather)

Thunder's claps will cease, to a tremulous slumber;

To nightmares untold! To fevers unnumbered!

Submit! To the Greatest!

The Great King! Whose hunger

flows through me, for one word.

He beckons:

“My child! Speak!”

To speak is to will the earth to rise!

To shout? Split my tree, in a forest of lies;

With truth like lighting pure and hot,

And humbled by a loosened knot-

When I finally crumble,

Let my boulders tumble,

Let soot be stark,

And my mountains rumble-

Before the valley I will cry.

What I would change, it cannot be seen.

Except up, through the window, in a victorious, golden stream,

that dances, makes these cobblestone walls seem serene;

as a vision of eternal ecstasy,

my Voice rides the wind to rescue me;

to unlatch the padlock, and toss the key;

I will be vulnerable, the prisoner free!