Maybe it’s my shivering, stuttering, faltering heartbeat,
Absent while shallow lungs remain, caged in bones
Made frailer by my solitude, gasping hope like a thirst.
I swear it’s alive – a beating crescendo; lights surround
The forsaken stage, the ignited glory where we preach
That passionate tragedy of distorted theatrics that we crave.
I have renounced them; denied their inevitable truth:
Life’s sadistic games, I said, I swore I would not humour.
And yet those muted plaster walls where I was bound,
Both imprisoned by the playwrights and hiding in myself,
Are scribbled with graffiti; the very words of emotion
Etched upon my cells, superficial as the pencilled script.
I have made my choice. I embrace those mortal passions,
Their ardour and their agony; the spirit and the storm.
Vulnerable to weakness, through suffering and sentiment,
At last the pulsing chamber in my chest may fill with feeling -
As my heart pours in, I overflow, and fall, conquered
Without regret: Finally I am free.