(untitled)

And I pound my fists on the iron wall,
the booming echoes through the darkness. 
There is no way out of this prison.
It's always been dark here,
but I haven't always been here.
Sure there are windows, high up, out of reach,
yet they let in only the dark of the night.

And I pound my fists against the iron wall,
hoping to God that someone will find me,
rescue me from this cell.
My own voice is my only companion,
but I don't always know that.
Time drifts by in hours, minutes, years, 
and nobody ever appears.
Maybe the outside world is no longer outside,
or maybe never was, and I'm left
in the true reality to deal with only myself.

And I pound against the iron wall with bruised fists,
looking for an exit that may have eluded me
for a thousand days.
Did I perhaps forget where I came in?
If there were light I might be able to draw a map
in the dirt to find my way home.
But wait! How could I miss that?
I shall dig my way out, dig through the dirt,
and under the wall, and out into a real reality,
where light is light and life is true.

And I dig into the hard dirt with bleeding fingers,
salvation dripping from my brow, the exit 
from this dark cell only a few drops of blood away.
With each handful of dirt removed,
the forthcoming light is more apparent.
And what does sunlight look like now?
Is it still the same? or has it perhaps changed color
to purple or green?  Are colors still working?
With each handful of dirt my pulse quickens,
like the anticipation of a first sexual encounter.

And I tear through the dirt with shredded finger-tips,
frantic to finally find the end to this sentence,
anxious to taste fresh air and new thoughts,
to see a smile on my face or any face.
But I scream silently as my fingernails rip off
when they rake against the iron below the dirt.
Will I never know where I am?  What is real?
This can't be all there is left to my world.
Can it?

And I pound my fists on the iron wall...



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Copyright 1996 by Jonathan Frey