Overwhelmed in a subsumption
of rapier steel, a slender stalk
of hay in the needlestack, every
eye encircling him in judgement;
each piercing their displeasure
in a mental bloodlet, no hand
would brave the chromium cage
that traps his bridled rage, lest
they too be lashed; no way to
thread an escape, he sets to gaze
in perpetuity upon the pleasance
at his reality’s edge; self-inflicted
destruction would surely end the
improbity that surrounds him,
presses upon him, crucifies his
every pore; yet he yields in
torpidity beneath the wake of
life’s defining failures and the
weight of obstinate oppression
that steels his own imagination
art: Idle Hands by Will Barnet
