In the gloaming chambers of their breast,
where sorrow’s choir chanteth low and dire,
the thralls in secret fashion fetters
from the rusted echoes of their dread.
Yea—iron circlets wrought of whispered lies
they set upon their brows as mournful crowns.
Before dim glass they bend the knee,
beseeching semblances that answer not;
for in those pale and hollow visages
dwelleth the wraith of their own making.
Each oath they mutter sealeth chains anew.
Each trembling doubt becometh lock and bar.
Their umbrae loom as tyrants o’er them,
long-limbed and cruel as midnight’s ire.
And still they heed their spectral bidding,
treading the same worn circle ’round
a throne where none but shadows sit—
a throne they guard with bleeding faith.
No master wields the scourge above them;
yet they start at every stir of choice,
spilling freedom like dark ichor
upon the altar of their ancient sorrows.
Cobwebs, scarcely felt upon the skin,
are drawn to manacles of coldest steel
by their own trembling will.
Hearken—
beyond the ever-weeping stones,
there standeth a door unbarred,
and in each palm a key long warmed
by the pulse of forgotten courage.
The walls are woven of mere breath,
the gaoler but a whisper in the mind.
And the night, in solemn murmur, speaketh thus:
“Thou hast forged thy cage,
but thou bearest likewise the wings to shatter it.”
