A waking trough drank from.
A slimming sliver of light,
propels anxious emotions
to push forward recklessly.
Soundless thought provocation
leaves impulse, both reserved
and patient.

The rabid underbelly of
anger, rubs the surface of
skin into a flush state of
awareness.
The eyes sting,
as the light of his new
found sight seemingly
mocks him.
Poking pincers into
corneas, then slinking away
before they can be
discerned.

It’s the pain of servitude
he feels. A gouging rope
intertwined with wrists,
and ankles, bridging
above his spine.
Lurking leviathans lay
in wait snorting the air;
for it’s fear that ensnares
their nostrils, enslaves
their hunger.

The tragedy of this
motionless, but aware
stereotype, is that even
soft sounds carry the scent
of sorrow, the implication
of surrender.
He writhes in his own
self-worth questioning his
resolve.
Haplessly he fingers the
knots, but fails to clutch
their intricacy.
Remembering how
metaphor got him this far,
he pictures idle statues
gazing out across an
expansive ocean, looking
longingly out to the Eastern
horizon, making up dialogue
for lifeless figures.

He feels safe enough to
wake, only to behold four
walls, and no windows he’s
sealed his fate.
Etched on the wall is his name,
and a verse.

“Still softer sounds have
no sorrow as their masters.
It’s the miniscule verbose voice
used to commit no action,
that holds the chord of your
execution.”

He knows the voice all too
well. He knows what peril
safety does hold .
He grips his face, and cries.
Not in anger, nor happiness,
but acceptance.
He cannot live the life of a
castrated servant…!