Imprisonment isn't complete,
for that which needs to be controlled will always be feared.
eating at the peripheries.
as harmless at caterpillars on leaves.
A picture perfect model of nature for the onlooker,
a predator for the leaf.
Control fears itself,
for control fails to control itself.
like a gas leak,
and the entire town's bust.
Yet you choose to imprison,
a misshapen gear that doesn't fit the machine.
Concept of security is perverse for the insecure.
Sometimes I can see it move,
searching for an escape.
And then its tortured into submission,
by your ever watchful eyes,
momentary fear, releases into triumph.
Perennial fears, lurk. Forgotten, stay firmly put.
We only imprison that which can ever be released.
Imprisonment separated from freedom by indefinite time.
It occupies your space though.
and anything that occupies space,
morphs it into its own home.
And when time is measurable,
The only freedom is death.
Why not define this time then?
Time can only be defined by choice.
A choice to release or kill it.
What secret pleasure do you derive from the sight of this prisoner?
Is it the immeasurable illusion of control?
Like when gripping the seat of a rollercoaster makes you feel you cannot fall?
Is it the sense of accomplishment?
Like that of putting one foot in the cold water of a pool only to confirm it's devoid of heat?
Or Is it the talisman for nostalgia?
Like keeping a bit of your dead hair from a visit to the hairdresser's?
There, it stirred again.
Like a pet answering its master's agitated call.
Growling with anger at the intruder.
But the intruder is you, on the other side of time.
Lest time is tired of waiting
and its choice is a consequence of its absence.
You're the one behind bars.