The Prisoner

I woke from a salvatory slumber,
Transported from idyllic fields,
Full to the mountaintops,
With dead ideas.
Dream-comfort dissipates,
Returning the scene of solitary confinement,
Forcing the blank canvas of concrete into my view.
My face aches for my son’s thawing embrace,
With no window of opportunity;
Only constructed concepts holding me at bay from the noumenal,
Culling the memories of personal phenomenons,
Even God has left this room,
With no room for the absolute tyranny of absolutes,
Usurped by torch-lit mobs of accidental freedom fighters.
The jailer(s) is/are only implied through the echoes of footsteps,
Never visibly exercising his/her/its/their will,
Leaving me to my own stretching rack.
I have no tools fit to tunnel out of lucidity,
Shadows always whispering reaffirmations of denials,
Cave-painting simultaneous world scenes,
Overlapping, each unsatisfactorily replacing the past.
My desire overcomes,
Throws me against the stones,
Craving escape in the form of communal convergence,
To have and to hold the plant stalk in the sully public grace of Apollo,
From inside-out,
But the wailing wall holds,
Throwing my gaze back,
To focus inside-in.