Cold wraith-like walls my daily life surround,Mick McKellar
More veil than barrier, this dark stockade
Looms a rampart, a personal compound,
Which of human imperfection is made.
Withdrawn within, to the shadows I cleave,
A prisoner behind bulwark unseen.
I long to be free, but I cannot leave,
Cut off from my life—an abyss between.
My heart, long bound by chains I cannot see,
Drums a slow song, unheard but by my ears.
Its thirsty cadence, yearning to be free
Of unseen chains, rusted by salty tears.
Yet my mind roams free, unshackled, unbound,
To touch other minds, with a joy profound.
We all have our prisons, I suppose—some are even of our making. Serious illness can create an invisible prison, reinforced both by the fears of friends, family, and acquaintances, and our own fears, often amplified by loneliness and pain. However, there is joy in the freedom of the mind and the spirit, which recognize neither barricade nor boundary.