Beneath the dark tunnel of mind,
lurks the shaft of light, they say;
An intuitive feel for it, a la smell
of a rose, keep dark thoughts away.
I look back at the days in a bind
talent left to choke in a windless cell,
genies growing in a miasma of venom,
all for a few more coins, survival;
Restless as flies against the pane,
eyes seeing yellow for blue warm,
back withered by unending abuse,
manacled in the world of pettiness.
At the end of a eventless travel,
beatific light makes’em shrivel.