Dying Between Time's Walls

There stillness spread infinity,

A quiet bed's eternal peace,

a weightless blue expanse,

his head stretched silent universe

and wrapped within its black embrace.

He felt the white skin of his face,

become a map of spheres and stars,

those worlds surrounding his might reach,

he woke and stared through metal bars.

He drew the symbols on his face,

midnight's forehead above clouds

that ticked in sleepless progress toward

his ear near cheek, on left's third hour.

He killed time slowly in his head,

but racing treason's nature kept

repeating thoughts that made him weep,

his lapsing tock slipped backwards deep,

escaping time, he dreamt of sleep.

The gavel drummed its fitful drag,

year's shackled ankles,  shuffling waste,

without each cramming minute's loss,

the language of sun's crossing rays,

blocked out by concrete walls, his days,

held hostage by a sliding tray.

A decade's loaded mind took aim,

plans firing round each hour edged plate,

each moment's perfect tense was now,

but hesitation made him late,

beginning's prophecy delayed.

On each seditious wrist a-glow,

the system's strapped-on cock would crow,

the left in neon, numbers slow,

by right's bold strutting certainty,

he smashed them both, then sat not knowing

hours of inactivity, made him a metronome.

He ate the endless holes he dug,

in dreams the floor was soft and brown,

in dreams his rapid sliding eyes

scooped tongue filled freedom closer

down, he slipped inside himself, the hole

just big enough to free his soul,

and crawled toward darkness,

hours of sight, behind those blinded

by the night,

Then waking hard to face the wall,

face hiding from the mocking thrall

of those long broken breaking all,

to die for one more day.