A prison, where do I go?
Am I free to open the gate?
Hands without the shackle,
What shall unfurling fate
Behold, at the tip of my step,
At the heel of my feet.
The wrestling storm awaits,
The bars old, rusty auburn blue,
The crown like face, my satchel
Hanging, Hair a little askew.
I go to reach out, is this really true?
As I twist the knob, the cold creaking
Voice breaks in the steel of auburn blue.
The aged brown vines, eons ago new,
Once flowered, now no flowers find,
like snakes, coil round the silver hue.
Is this my prison, self made, image mine?
Or is this my leaving, the old far behind.
Yes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem