Hands before me feeling round the
two-faced smoothly paint and bare
faced walls ensconced in frozen dark
ened broken bell-like gloom
Ceiling pushing down and deep and
doomsomely (it drudgely creeps).
I feel the flatness painted matt
ness maze of white in blackness
Strange to think there’s nothing
left behind me but the air and
open scars left tumble over-
grown as tunnel-coloured tubeness
Deadend phrases ring insnide my head
“no exit!” sounds and then “huis clos!”
or “voie sans issue!” — “cul de sac!” —
cracks around my feet now show
I couldn’t even give these words
(or anything which bleeds) away
for bloodless puppets broken
ness means won’t-come-out-to-play
I’ve come too far to turn around and
start the trudging trail again.
This lifetime line is worn to shreds
by deaden(e)d laughter’s losing game
That game’s been played as hard as it
could be. Not even one thread changed.
Accursed, the stasis in the dead
ness is the stroke that’s ambushed me.
© Alan Morrison, 2015