The heart
Wrapped
In the glass cage,
Separate
From the body,
Separate from the world,
Isolated
From synapse touch,
From neurone being:
Yet still
The mind watches
From behind the glass,
Seeing everything,
Un-blinkered,
Unblinking.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
When prisons
Are lights
And birth places
Of the newly born.
Sanctuaries
For those in need,
The digressed children
Of the world,
Patterned and learned,
Patterned and learned.
Where time spent
Is rich maturation
In the loam
Of love.
Where all who leave
Are first made whole
And go,
Full of heart
Full of blood,
Gifted all
That they would steal,
Gifted all
That was withheld,
Gifted all
That they would need.
Gifted.
They leave gifted.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
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