​

Vadim

 

The prison adrift,

in fog of war…

 

Where phantom limbs intently

cup, the curating warden’s lips

with credible mirages

excavated of vacant echoes,

confined at the servant’s barracks

content to exploit

 

in unquelled conquest

to remedy the untimely collapse

of all that was accepted

before the old regime

regained a foothold,

 

and killed the prisoner

weeping in solitary

 

aspiring to be

something     – more  hopeful

than pink viscera

goose feather pillows;

 

ampersand hopeless pleas

unwitnessed

in the penance gallery.

me. It's easy.