Ensnared.

The door was of a dark mahogany,
and only just accommodated my height.
I knocked once, then twice and again once more,
but despite persuasion, the door sat tight.
"I've got things to do, places to be" -
I reminded those that I could not see.
The room felt too enclosed -
I was trapped there. Ensnared.

To Hell with knocking.

I hit upon that dark mahogany
and felt splinters and Earth spit back at me.
Suddenly the walls were so immediate, as if
in this sombre system I was the centre of all gravity.
They did not just keep me in, but pushed and shoved.
The entire weight of the world resting on those wooden walls,
as if it all would collapse if just one of them falls.
It was not a room at all.
That was not a door to another side,
just the lid on a chamber where memories reside.
I hit out once, then twice, and again once more.
No use. I was buried - alive.

Muse.

Let me create a canvas,
so that I might capture your essence.
Let me put a pen to paper
so a reader can bask in your presence.
Let me play the game
for win or lose,
you'll stand alone -
my only muse.

Captain.

Furious skies of Olympic thunder
cast down a sheet of hail on the deck.
A cacophony of panic wrenches at the crew
as they adjust the bearing for skies a brighter blue.
"Captain! Captain! What left is there to do?"
He peers into the abyss below and declares:
"These waves you cannot ride nor tame,
this bullet must already know your name."
Adorned with clear blue shirt and hat
his voice can barely brave the biting wind -
as he tells them all - "I'm so sorry men,
but it seems we must go back."

Tomorrow.

For there to be a bright tomorrow
there needn't be a bright today.
We chain ourselves with iron sorrows -
harboured thoughts better kept at bay.

Shrine.

You build your shrine to Time,
broken memories better left behind -
sacrificed for the future,
and cast aside.

Where once there laid a flame
there now lies embers.
And where once you said a name
your lips now stay sealed.
You used to speak in forevers
but Time you cannot tame.
It's no commodity to be dealt
nor is it swayed by wealth and fame.
For all that our riches can afford
Time will best us all the same.

So you build your shine to Time,
every paintstroke is a memory left behind -
sacrificed for the future,
and cast aside.

Tracks.

Stretching on for an eternity before me,
the road was pitch black beneath the growing clouds.
Once distant howling now grew closer every second
whilst the cold paralysed, and the touch of Winter dulled all sense.
The rails start to shake, as my whole body seems to tense.
The barriers are lowered, the heavens open up.
Thunder and rain strike from forgotten clouds so dark and dense.
The train passes for only a second
and then the rain relents.

Free.

How do you know that you are free
unless you break away from the mould;
do the unexpected,
consider the rejected,
and go against what you were told?
Doesn't incarceration work at its best
if you never discover the extent of its hold?