Confinement can be madness, anyone will
Tell you, just ask the wallpaper, although
Somehow Albert Woodfox came out sane
From the other side of a genuine purgatory
Only maybe Nelson Mandela could too have
Borne unbroken. This own body could break
In a few days caught in unofficially confined
Desuetude, never mind the decomposition
Of mind likely in an actual prison. The total
Past felt nothing once destroyed, but
The smallest flicker of experiential being,
Aware in a wicker-and-compost clad world,
Could come unglued with ache of longing
To be, but to be free. You compose, said
Self, acidly, in mind of body, too freely.
I only decompose, body replied. Ravel
And unravel are near synonyms, as are
Regardless and irregardless, Beauregard.
The smell of the invalid's confinement is
The stench of life in its own nostrils,
The signal all was never well with this world.
I understand, awareness understood. When
I will be free, I will not be. As for you
And whose armies fight over this planet
No more than a speck of reflected starlight
In the irremediable night, so what? You
Want not to die or for something to die
In some way more horribly than you, true?
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