Hands in Chains

If you could sway my heart
you’d gladly chain your own wrists
and with some subtle sleight
swallow the key.

Convincingly, you play harmlessness,
guilt and beguile both,
and shed tears as easily as you once
whispered promises to me.

But you are no captive,
neither to me nor to love.

If I return again to visit your cell,
you would be gone anew;
never once, did you call me home.


Sick Muses

My words have lost the pleasing sway of the women who walk softly.
No longer do they whisper or entreat, but stare dumb
Empty of all, but the faint guttering of a flame near extinguished.
They have forgotten sun and song and dance
Are hollowed of the joy which animates them as blood does me.
I leave my door ajar, but they do not go
Only mutely plead for a sustenance I cannot know to give.


Waiting for hours
The prisoner of fears paces
Squeezed between walls and plastered posters
Meant to threaten and negate
All the beauty of the world drained into slogans
Monochrome beasts, fanged and sharpened
Any visitor speaks softly like a ghost
A trick of wind
The inmate cannot hear who entreats him
And the friend cannot see his walls