A Prison of my Own Making

I stopped this morning,
All the thinking.
Gulping air with sightless eyes,
The constant bell-ring in my ear,
The stabbing knives in my mind,
Slowly faded.
In my thoughtless breath,
I rode free from the flesh,
Beyond the blood running hot,
And the thousand-thousand thoughts,
Coalescing into the mortar-mess,
Mortarium,
That cages my feverish consciousness.

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2 thoughts on “A Prison of my Own Making

    1. As always, I thank you for your insight and kind words. We are but caged souls trapped in a sort of tormented, beautiful state. Maybe our poetry is like your birdsong – a lovely lamentation, our consignment to our entrapment.

      Liked by 1 person

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