In Principio

The Box

I feel trapped.

I sit here,

every minute and everyday,

inside this large silver box

guarded by these 

larger silver poles.

They refuse to budge.

I've tried to break free,

but these bars are too obstinate,

too thick,

rusted over from disuse, they

bend for no one.

These wrought iron bars

have been wrung from the hands

of cruel machines and 

have been cemented and fixed so

deep into the ground,

that to pull them out,

the ground would quaver and

break,

as if it disapproved the idea

and had grown familiar to the bars 

that had

once thrusted themselves upon it 

without hesitation.

Many the prisoners

have long since stopped trying to 

break free,

because peace and quiet

is much preferred to 

calloused hands 

and hoarse voices.

Believe it or not

we all once had wings. 

Beautiful, healthy, strong 

wings.

Wings that stole the sun’s light

just so they could shine

their own.

Wings that span so long 

even the horizon wouldn’t stop them.

Wings that flew so far,

and so high,

that Daedalus would have been 

left dumbfounded

miles beneath them.

But now,

My wings are coated in grime

and my feathers have grown stiff

from the years of confinement,

for I cannot spread them;

there simply is no space

to fly.

The rest have succumbed to

the restraining rails,

accepting the rules,

acquiescing to the ones

who have restricted so much,

who caged us in to begin with

and will keep us locked, 

and leashed,

because 

it’s easier that way.

It’s always easier that way.

But this large silver box

guarded by these

larger silver poles

can give a man lots of time 

to think—

for even daedalus started somewhere.

And even this little fissure 

that’s so insignificant,

and so minuscule,

overlooked and disregarded

by everything,

has sprouted

between the reinforced steel

and will show this grand silver box

some wings of its own.