We aren't stranded on an island; we aren't stranded on a cruise ship. We haven't been imprisoned in isolated cells yet we drift sick and bewildered, in circles. We aren't stranded on a cruise ship or in a prison with seven wings. Yet we drift, sick and bewildered, in circles. Each cell's skylight is called the Eye of God. Who designed such a prison with seven wings? You could dig a tunnel beneath the floor but the Eye of God looks through the skylight. We aren't here to be reformed; or are we? We might dig a tunnel beneath the floor without being able to outrun a plague. What if we're here in order to be reformed? Even in a solarium, it's hard to be apart, alone. It's here and running rampant, in the way of plagues. We are, yet aren't, stranded on digital islands. The world will shed some of us like leaves. Try not to think of it only as a prison of isolated cells.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.