I'm sick of killing time. This long death burns
away the years without a scar or tan
to show for endless days and creaking turns
around the sun. The slow decay of man,
our world of shadows lit by drifting ashes.
I'll find a way out; flames are just dancing lies;
just petty things. I'll fill this cave with flashes
of lightning, lay my hands on flesh, and prise
each person from their cage of skin; use my knife
to free them from their unexamined life.
If you've any comment on this poem, Eloise Stonborough would be pleased to hear from you.