The Cocoon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This night,

It hasn’t dressed me for the morning:

I’m still in a cocoon

Of interwoven blacks and blues

/

Staring at dawn,

I cannot feel daylight returning,

Or touching me –

It’s just a colour, of no use

/

To me,

A terribly disturbed spectator,

Watching an artist’s brush,

Envying him his muse

/

To me,

Self-tried and sentenced perpetrator,

Sharing the maze-like cell

With my self-righteous jury

/

Tonight

I put my hands over my eyes and

I sew them up

With threads as strong as needles

/

I lock my nightmares

From the outside world within me:

They’ll be

The only things I see for years

/

I’ll write of them

And paint them with my blind hands;

One day

I’ll hear you ask me: ‘what is that?’

/

I won’t reply;

With monsters pushing through

My numb lips,

I’ll go to sleep in my cocoon instead