An old creak as the doors of the morning rattle from the sweet cover of unconscious dream.
The painful light of being bears down on me,
urging and pressing and warring.
In waking there is no repose,
Duty latches onto my first thought –
a schizophrenic voice,
maleficent and sharp.
There is no soft glow of morning here,
no quiet solitude before the dawn to prepare.
Here no sailors press the shoes of luck before the day begins,
for the night has been a brief pause only,
and yesterday’s burdens beat the dust of responsibility from their coattails
and into my sputtering,
Now the cold light drips down on me,
artificial and frigid,
it stings my eyes even as it reminds me that nature lies afar
just outside my reach,
just outside my sight.
I rot in this cage of the mind,
watching as each precious moment of being is traded for a morsel
and mortgaged for another sack of chores,
always bearing down and pressing crushingdehumanizingdamningkilling.
There is no escape.
I have no metaphor,
no poetic analogy.
I am trapped.
This is Hell.