The Empty Shirt [sonnet]
A shirt blows in the wind; its sleeves on fire;
the outstretched arms are crucified with steel.
Around the collar, circles of barbed wire
bring light which safety’s comfort can’t reveal.
I left that empty shirt behind like scales
of useless skin which wasted clean away.
A secret whisper then with zeal impales
itself on all that’s left of me today.
There comes a point you realise you’re you
and no one else; you’re wholly on your own —
just you and all your cells, which slyly grew
& now you’ve found you’re more than flesh & bone.
Each day I’m getting closer to the source
Now that the shirt has gone, I feel its force.
© Alan Morrison, 2015
The Naked Troubadour 