The Cell

The cell was almost cozy,
the bed narrow, but soft.
He had made a bookshelf
of the high window ledge and
learned to read by the
light of a bare yellow bulb.
It was quiet here, noiseless
except for the drip of water
from a battered corner sink.
He slept during the day to
avoid the slanting sunlight
that reminded him of the
time he walked among men,
making decisions, supporting
various dependencies, and
reaping consequences like
the whirlwind in his Book.
It was the song of a bird
that disrupted his solitude,
fluttering at his barred window,
coming and going as it pleased.
It visited him in his dreams
and its sweet song echoed in
the empty chambers of his heart.
At the point it became unbearable
he grasped the bars of his door
and gave a tug, finding
that it offered no resistance.

***