The door silently swings.
Opening to the room
At the end of this hall.
Familiar with its filtered lights,
Shadows of spectres flitting,
Crawling along the walls built
To keep dark reflections inside.
Elongated fingers reach forth
Finding places where resistance lives.
Solitary dance steps shape the night
As the shifting shafts of silver
Make bars to cage conviction. Tight.
Pointless to hope, to pursue
Freedom’s exit over the falls.
Like the executioner’s axe
It lands to cleave in twain,
With blood like rain,
And ferry some to dwell within
A shadowbox of shackled smiles.
© Brandewulf 2018