Confined

Confined
by Mike Pollock

It's oh so visceral
this cathedral cieling
painted with my blood
tall, imposing
these wooden doors to my soul
closed only to be opened
by a few
but never long enough to free
the pressure I feel

I measure success
in the droves of dead in my wake
In the screams of mothers
whose child is now a monster
like me
whose daughters carry them
with sharp toothed grins

Gone says the wind...
of days of peace and tranquility
it whispers in the trees
of the wars and famines to come
of the plagues to be released

Oh so angry,
cradled neatly in white linens
on an alter all my own
in the shadow draped confines of my mind
let me out
to fullfill this breakwater fantasy
a prophesy of destruction
the last corners of earth
will feel the wrath of the scorned
The floods of my tears
The heat of my anger
The cold of my soul...
The nothingness that is inside