Dropping the Torch

We play games and every move

is noted down as a subsequent cause

and effectively chains our freedom and will to live;

we settle in to simple survival,

hanging on our pleasures grimly...

we must never let them go.

Our prison walls are slowly built,

stone by stone and day by day;

no provision for escape,

entombed alive in safety

and decay.

Time sets around us in killing frames,

black border round our names.

Our fingers lose their grip

and the torch slips.

The enemy for everyone

is everyone, inside.

I feel the hand of security

creep on me with ice-cold fingers

and crush my flower of freedom;

I've lost the course of my adventure,

all the things I'd meant to do are lost.

There is only one flame each

to keep alive in the wind.

But finally we snuff them out

all by ourselves.

We set traps and, in the end,

fall into our own snares

and have nowhere to go.

Time ever moves more slowly;

life gets more lonely

and less real.