The spirits’ face is a black hole
Swallowing the celestial beauty
Of the stars.
The sentinel is crouched
Subsumed in seething pain
Not pain but anger of being guiltless
Yet ‘guilty’ for being in jail.
The cell –
No crime equals its greasy grey walls
Thickly dark with no grills for light
Till the eyes, sore, feel pain no more.
The sentinel –
Was once a brother
Used to sit by my feet
But wandered away,
Till err passed his way.
Who is to blame
When the mind is aflight
And discretion is abandoned