By Daisy Paltrow
I sit on the oversized chair of execution that I’ve become accustomed to.
Each day I wait in wonder for the moment it will all be over.
My hands clasp the edge of the arms that hold the imprint of my shape;
At once, the iron rings enclose my wrists, bounding me to my hell.
My eyes flicker to the hands that tease me with their motion,
Round and round they go, too slow for me to care.
I am subdued by the iron curtain that falls before my eyes
And once again I am left to the silence that has become my isolation.
The habitual familiarity of my beaten path numbs my every awareness.
Finally the shackles fall to the ground.
The deliverance is overwhelming.
I rush out of my prison, elated by my freedom.
Category: Poetry