by Ira Arora
Pilgrims bound by empathy
Return to the mines of entropy,
Guided by the Godly wisdom
Of Corpus Christ’s stockholm syndrome.
Sunlight shines just behind
The corrupted loom of woodland,
And canopies shade the soil
From what the clarity would lend.
By the charity of bondage
They weigh every next decision.
Nearing an open clearing,
Their minds are forcefully undressed,
And visions rhyme out
As they stand in their arrest:
A mound of broken shackles,
Liberty buried beneath.
The sound of spoken silence,
Swords wielded without sheath.
A room with four walls and no door —
A room with a ceiling and no floor.
by Peter Page