Around the center
of the middle
there's a comfy little prison
where you can never go nowhere,
nor see nothing quite enough.
No one put the bars there;
somehow, they just happened.
There's
no danger,
no failure,
no terror,
no love.
On the top and the bottom
live the innocent and the guilty,
who gave up
can't
and
probably
and
yeah, but
and
perfect.
Some fly high with the clouds,
some burn deep in the furnace.
In between is the middle,
where it doesn't really matter.
You can copy their laughter,
you can show off their feel good;
they will all still be out there
by the time you get home.
The easy fix is forgetting.
(Relax, they won't see you, either.)
Hang your hat where the heart is.
Kick up your feet.
Outside the cage hangs a painting,
and maybe they're all in there -
abractionistic impressionism,
brightly colored on canvas.
They aren't in your third dimension.
You aren't out here watching.
In & out
aren't
left or right
nor
up or down.
They simply aren't.
In a world without boxes,
there's no way to be in one;
no cowering in the comfort
of a clearly labeled vault.
Every wall is a window,
but you can go on vacation.
Reality can't follow
if you jump off the page.
So then real must be the flat in you
that keeps your sides separate:
unwritten chapters, blueprints for a jail.
It's your blank, weightless bravery
as you slip between the bars;
the faded photo you're found clutching
at the end if you don't.
Adding your comment:
. I'd send you an e-card, but AP doesn't have those, unfortunately. Maybe that's because we are supposed to be able to write our own Hallmark cards.
