Willing Prisoner

The darkness is a mirror
In a world of endless tunnels,
So smooth beneath his fingers and
So hollow: a cavern where there might have been,
A long forgotten realm ago,
Something.

No movement and no noise, the stifling
Silence of the world;
Solitude darker than death
Presses in upon his soul
That seeks to break out, but is fenced in by
Control.

Darkness and blindness, what are they
But a prison upon his being?
A world that’s growing while he shrinks
But always there are constraints, restraints,
Driving him slowly but surely
Insane.

Is it a prison made for him
Or a prison made by him?
A prison in his heart that renders him
As helpless as a slave beyond his station
Alone save for his too-vivid
Imagination.

Even a drop of water seems
In this barren place to be
As menacing as footsteps that will
Never be heard, not even when running
Because the creatures of his mind are too
Cunning.

Does he still feel fear
Prickling tendrils in his skin?
In a world of madness, where
The lightless dungeons are a maze of hell
But the only thing keeping him here is
Himself?

He longs for open skies and the
Cool breeze upon his skin but
His guard will not allow
His heart to flow like silver streams,
Not when all his life he has never dared to even
Dream.