White Walls

Men In Trench Coats

White walls cage me, and the foulness of death clusters my thoughts.

I hear the child holler out in despair, my arms fastened down, I try to move, the wires grate my angelic creamy flesh.

The tile now red, the walls block me in.

I can no longer breathe, skin turns blue, eyes show no spirit.

He is shouting my name, but my limbs are cumbersome.

I have to move, to get away from the men in trench coats.

They hurt him, in return I hurt.

When they strike him, I feel the agonizing throb of one's open palm.

They stab the knife into his heart, I feel a shortness of air, the room begins to narrow.

I feel a sense of gentleness upon my bare bleached thigh, his hands soothe away the blackness, his tongue the memories.

I can see the sun through the bars that fasten me tenaciously, the doves glide graciously, people walk by hand in hand.

The white walls disperse, the child no longer weeps.

Arms are free, soul is opened to the passion he has to offer.

The men in trench coats leave through the haze, I awake protected in his convincing arms.

Copy Right: Erin Birtwistle 1998