Sheltered

There’s no key to the lock on the brain
because it is a sign of independence,
nor is the mind really imprisoned
inside a windowless box
for it is shelter against evil.

All the tales invented in stoic silence,
muted memories stilled by writing
on the walls of that oppressive chamber
called safety instead of fear’s cellar.

It’s the dementia of pride
carefully contriving creative causes
about the shivers and shakes
so you don’t have to admit
this cell where thoughts go to die
is more a morgue than haven.

How exquisite is the eloquence of fractured reality
where existence is seen as paradise,
forget the summers outside
when the heat made the veins simmer
and every day was full of surprises.

Those were ramblings of a precocious innocence
not fact or truth you have to live,
much more tolerable
being entomb where you were the mortician
so the cold and death of that cursed climate
can be explained as peace
even after the moans rob the night of quiet.