cmplsvpoet

A Part Meant Prison

the vaulted ceilings of the third story
represent something more than amenities
some concept beyond comfort or space
some concept below cosmos or space
some concept between contentment and philosophy

and the clock runs its course as the hands
perpetually pull apart and work around again
to fit in harmony like
the alignment of the spheres

and time escapes me

because it takes on, instead
some symbol of unity
or circular trend
or ouroboros;
a mouth swallowing its own tail

and the vaulted ceilings of the third story
give the impression of freedom
but mean unattainability, since to jump
will never be to scrape my palm against restraint

the iron skeleton of a balcony
looms unnoticed between safety
and flight; is a waist-high warning
of a thirty length plunge

and the iron skeleton of a man
weighs heavy under my muscles
clinging to seamed imperfection die-cast
and keeps me safe, unharmed
but burdens me down from

scraping my palm against restraint

and if i tried to swallow my tail
my metallic spine would reach my tongue

and i would stop
because i wouldn't like the taste.