Pennhurst

“Pennhurst.”

The sting of faces inside of the wall
In a vision of stains that still I recall:
Of thunderous whispers on desolate shores.
Take me from there with that voice of yours,
As though I may leave this prison of mine—
Woven, so delicately: my own design.

There is no shred of what I should be—
When I close my eyes, still I can see
Mirrors of the heart, touched by the thorn
Of phantom, grey roses; I water and mourn
Such blooms where life never can be
In fields of aurora I no longer can see.

Tell me in darkness, what is candlelight?
Tell me at sunrise, what follows the night?
I forgot the moon from my windowpane.
May I feel the sun’s breath again?
There is no song of sky, of river or of bird.
In this cell, the shadows can be heard.

Under the walls, and upon the floor,
Thinking in longing of what I was before.
Drowning in specters I alone have viewed
In the terror of the solitude
Of all I hope to escape from:
In the prison which I have become.

© 2021 Marten Hoyle