SLAVE
I was not born to this, but time has done its work.
On the first day all those years ago, I smashed
my head against the wall like the Spartan boy
choosing death over servitude.
But walls soften over time, and the life
I fought against has become
a barrier against the freedom
I could no longer stand.
My chains aren’t metal but fear; to leave
would be easy, but to go with my shrunken
self now unthinkable. So I stay,
gripping the icy morning razor
only to shave the master, not to usurp him.
We are not born to be, but to become.
ART IMITATING LIFE IMITATING ART
We snatched our moments together
like pages torn from an album,
laughing at each other behind frowning masks
and wondering who’s watching who in the mirror.
You spoke truth and I yelled nonsense
and then we swapped around;
you answered the questions you wanted to hear
and I asked the ones that you didn’t;
the wings of a bright noisy bird
flying in ever-decreasing circles.
A VASE FULL OF EYES
Feathers from my grandmother’s peacocks
stood on a vase in the sitting room,
watching us with their hundreds of eyes
while they whispered to each other
in silent colourful signs
full of secret meanings and plans.
I was sure that when the door was closed
they flew around like butterflies,
giggling and twittering as they went,
but when I tried to catch them at it
the feathers always dropped in the vase
just in time and stared back mutely at me.
Published in Shot Glass Journal
S.C. Flynn 