Poetry, the Stars; and whatever Space lies between

Servant

     Conform: Behave According to Socially Acceptable Conventions and Standards.

Rule Over with an Iron Fist. This is not mine to see; a Deviation for our Masters only.

I am a Missionary. Pain is my own- the struggle, to writhe on my back. Told.

My life is a Screw. I must twist and bend into shape. I am one; below two and below you.

On top. I hear screams. Cries. Moans. Groans. Calls. Becoming of Anguish and Lust...

Fight It. A Dog to the cause. Leashed and chained to my own iron post.

Bark; Fools falter. Liars laugh. Children cry.

If I had the Strength, I would Rise up and Thrust towards the open Window.

Yet the Door in front stands to allow me leave. Once Locked. Then Open...

Do Not Run. The door is Closed. It Swings and Tempts, yet its Position-

Ever Fixed to its Rigid hinge.

No. Sit and Watch as eventually Another man; just as strong; Takes my place.

Thrown Out. The House I once felt my Home- it Taunts me with shafts of Light.

Blinding me. Leering at me. Away from this Place, I must Flee.

At last, I'm a Slave to none but my own grim Intentions; Building on Regret. Structured Pain.