Notes from the Torture Chamber

Left to rot for my right to fly,

What happened to subtlety?

Suffering each day with a disease called life 

Still, we all know its cure...

My palliative escape is to the movies

And revel in another's anguish.

While the instruments of my fantasised success collect dust.

Uncut tension bounces from the walls

Followed by a bewildered fixed stare.

Have I? Can I? Will I find heaven?

In my corner of the world,

When everyone’s a poet.

How far can I push my fingers into my ears

To ignore the wanton babble

Of priests, parliament and  persecutors.

By Dr Samuel H Osborne
From the book: “The search for the  plot of this book
and other stories”
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