The Stall

The words that wrap these walls
Drip wisdom,
Corroded brains from self-deprecating madness,
A poet's version of society's catechism

I find solitude for even a moment.
Though for others the silence
can be deafening.
I consider it a bonus.

Stalling the workers hand from the hits
banging the drums of commoners wit
I've always felt ashamed of it
and what has come,
From my mind. My words. My sins.
My hands that coiled around a pen...

At last
the stall keeps my demons
Carefully contained,
That peace beneath the hissing of snakes
I find happiness in a four-corner throne.
While others suffer to that horrid drone