paper weight

It is quiet here - there is no-one,
sun has gone, veiled in cloud
the sky carries stars, singing
out loud but no-one sees.

They left one by one, doors
closing and clothes left, I am
like a disease I cannot
cure me of.  I said 'please'

and 'thank you' as I was bid,
wringing my hands in pain
at every blow - and all they

expect of you is labour, endless,
until a worn body falls
defeated in time, spending
all the breath unthanked and
behind bars.  There is no freedom

here - we have killed it
and joy is hid in envelopes
marked 'work' and 'death'
like dreaded letters that arrive
with every post.  A far green

hill there is - I know it,
beyond time and space, pure
and untrodden, with birds of every
colour on the wing, and bright
trees in flower - deep in

where the true power flows.  A
place we defiled, long ago,
when the world was young
and we did not know.

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