Spelling it Out
Purged of all his words, we
shut him up,
Under pain of execution, left him
Rotting in this damp cell.
Inside, he insisted on scratching
Fears and wrongs into the concrete wall:
Iambic pentameters gave way, becoming
Curious syllabics of great variety
And worst of all free verse.
The general said there was no option
Ideas were dangerous so we took
Off both his hands. There was such a lot of blood.
Now, we have sluiced it all away.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Nigel
McLoughlin would be pleased to hear from you.