© 1983 W. Murray Sexton
Marooned on an island of my own construction,
Bound by the seas of imagined fears,
I held myself prisoner in a citadel dungeon,
Defending my state with poisoned spears.
Alone in the corner of my lofty chambers,
Cold in the damp of my silent tears,
I was hiding from secrets not a soul still remembers,
And churning my mind for sixteen years.
Disdaining the humble: How simple their pleasures!
Nervously laughing at my lack of peers,
Brooding on injuries (cynics’ sole treasures),
I counted myself among Earth’s greatest seers.
In solitude crafting wax wings to release me --
Confident now that my glory was near --
I trusted to plans I had drawn out completely,
Assembling gaskets and delicate gears.
Adorning myself in emaculate feathers,
Forecasting glamour, triumph, and cheers,
I took to the skies in haste, heedless of weather,
Flew high and fell far, and landed arears.
Humiliated, broken, and shattered to pieces,
Craving escape from the commoner’s jeers,
I drowned in the pity I prayed suicide ceases,
But quailed at Futility, my life’s greatest fear.
