I wake in the the predawn darkness to other darknesses surrounding me, thoughts become
demons hounding me, they all start yelling, crowding me
Wall towers tower like centurions, guardians at the gate preventing my escape, windows obscured by phantoms or just dancing trees whose leaves
blow in the wind while security lights shine on me, my life lit up kaleidoscopically, capturing me in 8mm peripheral visions envisioning far off
places as I sit in tight spaces, the cell block breathes deeply in slumber occasionally I number the snoring sound of life forces under covers whose
spirits escape as they canvas their dreams and nightmares, demons of the past standing right there, I’m still running (not fast enough), a lifetime spent
just (catching up) making plans, but the body gets old as I sit still in the cold
by myself, I need water to splash on my face, put in a glass just in case my
throat gets dry and I need a taste from the dry scratching sound of footsteps in the dark, hark — who goes there, keys jingling in syncopated rhythm,
as the air exchange cycles like the air needed for life to recycle in steady, droning hum, details of a soundscape with no escape for restless thoughts
like mine, slowly, imperceptibly, each minute expires and the quiet begins to erode as the structured chaos explodes as I make morning ablutions
in exchange of a former life filled with 7% solutions, still, I try to hold on to the quiet where all intimidations, real and imagined, are restrained, muted and
have no power as sixty minutes pursues the hour, the quiet is a place where I play the videos of past games where I ran out of past lives, and now wind
blown thoughts luminesce in dark skies, wish as I might, there is no altering the passage of time, in the quiet I sometime imagine the future with all the
optimism and promise that hope provides, but reality stake claims to aspirations and in inspiration I’m reminded of this, in the quiet I feel my
breath and hear my beating heart give thanks to a God Who seems elusive and never provides clear answers, but still time advances, not always with
second
chances
My clock reads 5:33 a.m. and I’m pulled away from the quiet imaginings of me to begin choreographed dances with others seeking life beyond the tower