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ILLUSION of FREEDOM

Bleuzette La Feir

Each day, the distance of an inch, parts and departs
me from the us that I coveted. A curdled separation of
the prospect of eventual forgiveness that five-years
eluded me.

After noons of blank, a void, a stretch of time. An
illusion. Intangible slave master. Wailing, spitting and
sweating—white knuckled, whip in hand. Profusely
exerting, yet cracking open effortless stripes down my
un-seeable, diseased-skinned back.

In an infected, capsized mind your escutcheon face
burns in relief on each tripping thought. Sly castigation
in contrast to the feted nature where we began in a
faithless, hopeless desert... War raging at the skirts.

Seized and bound. Bound and raw. Raw and festering.
My gaping wounds, pinking round the edges, give
effort to settle but calm is remote. Slumber is flung.
Numb is not, next to, wholly impossible.

Yellowed lamp light falls the room. Voices drift in
from stark, unprotected decks. Gnarled, unruly foliage
attempts anarchy again in the garden of fruitless,
juiceless query. And the night? Watching all cool like
with serene apathy.

No help. No help to close my eyes and flash on the
rapping, boiling pop. Those synapses—softer at the
moment, but not by much. A decibel less of seething
and frothing. A stabled giant needing of attention. The
kind that takes eons to earn freedom.