Eyes level, so cold
Gaze from ivory porcelain.
Locked in glass, kneeling
Under a glass ceiling
Sans a stain.
Sans a stain.
I suppose I'm amusing
Transatlantic in a crate.
And the similarities are uncanny
Deep in a glass valley
Condemned to spectate.
Condemned to spectate.
They burned the key
To my future and past.
I wish I knew in days of rain
What breaks first, porcelain
Or glass?
Or glass?
They wait outside my window
In shouting teaching me
W is silent when it's in whore
Chink isn't always a flaw in armour
What they'll do to me if I'm free.
What they'll do to me when I'm free.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PoetryAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
