you fight everything with such futile grace,
like a moth beating its wings
against a lighted window.
in the back room of a locked ward of a
hospital built for broken minds,
you press your face hard against the
cold glass of your shatterproof window
but it will not yield to tears.
in the anesthetic silence you
wage your secret war.
you are both the white army
and the black, with your kings locked
in a mutual checkmate- make a move
and both of them will fall. in your mind
the end of days is written in the spilled
rice pudding on the floor
and every sunrise is a new apocalypse.
the doctors, with small white pills
promise to deliver you from wonderland,
but you can't leave this darkening dream.
your night cigarette, under the watchful eye of nurses
is a beautiful thing to behold;
with it you flick sparks off into the night,
tragic fireworks sent high and bright and gold;
tiny stars swept away by the wind to freedom.
