Sitting,
waiting for her,
waiting for the call of freedom to arrive,
knowing it never will.
Light slides slippery on glass,
jam down the accelerator,
and find refuge from the pain,
in a familiar curve.
Gone again,
never given a chance anyhow.
Why desperate now?
Why desolation now?
I knew this would happen sooner,
setting myself up for failure,
easier than dropping the ball.
At least solitude,
has no martyrs strewn along its path.
Just call,
and end the wait,
let me hear the voice,
call me home,
sing for me you Jezebel.
Wires bind flesh,
hold back a soul,
open and close doors,
I cannot locate,
or understand.
Bound hands,
rattle bones,
at invisible jailers,
whose hands move opposite mine.
Steady distancing movements,
of nothing I can ever more,
hold or taste.
original prose, Yurei, 2000
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