the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Safety Net Syndrome

Our prisons are made of glass and of hell
With a door always open to the last thing we left,
Our captors. They are our rapture that makes us
Rattle our Faraday's cages as the charges build up,
Guilty of our own freedom to hope or to sleep.
Its presence is a blue tear in a gray sheet,
Resilient, persistent, piercing, complete.

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