Slender beams of accusation, lances of lightning, enter this darkened prison as I kneel before false prophets.
Always a slave, always despairing, frozen here, waiting.
Tortured forms, wrought in panes of glass, between the bars, loom as the dry dust of antiquated memory dances in the air.
Forming fresh an image in my dreams, penetrating my secret places.
To taste the drop of water that is called freedom.
To drink from the cup of wine which is the blood and the supple loaf which is the body.
As I am full of myself and the world, I cannot.
To bitter a stew that will not be devoured in one great physical encroachment.
Realization dawning on a mirrored face, I raise my head, now defying my obvious fate.
Leaving me, I remain and watch the flashes of light dance shadows of yesterday upon the walls.