the prison drowned

swallowed by the wave

Source: Unsplash

One breath, swallowed by the wave.
No air, battered under the crisp, clear waters of night.
I’m its prisoner,
long as the dark reigns.

Once grey stains the sky,
the wave ebbs,
motor oil oozing off limbs.
Some sticks far into the morning.

Armed with coffee,
a drunk badger tackles the light.
Armed with coffee,
a steam train gasps on.
Armed with coffee,
anything is possible—clock ticking.

What a thrill, the balancing act: nod off or electrocute your bloodstream.
I always wanted to be a tightrope walker.

Vision blurs—still, clock ticking.
While light hazes on,
steel yourself.

When velvet night descends,
the wave looms. How high?
Only the moon can tell
but she hasn’t spoken to me in a cycle or longer.
And I am drowned.

Author Notes

I’m one of those people who can’t sleep on planes. Add the jetlag and it took about five days until my sleep rhythm fixed itself. Insomniacs might relate.

And what about the title? My intention was not to signify a prison that has sunk underwater, although that would be interesting too, but people that were in the prison before they drowned. Too convoluted? I came up with many of these words after reading a quote from the Bob Dylan Chronicles so you can blame him for the poetry.

Sometimes you just want to do things your way, want to see for yourself what lies behind the misty curtain. It’s not like you see songs approaching and invite them in. It’s not that easy. You want to write songs that are bigger than life. You want to say something about strange things that have happened to you, strange things you have seen. You have to know and understand something and then go past the vernacular. The chilling precision that these old-timers used in coming up with their songs was no small thing.