Poems of Threatened Freedom

The Collector


The caterpillar pupates into chained wings.

In the broad, clear sunlight, the collector comes,

And the collector wouldn’t come

If the butterfly had no wings.


The collector is a wing-less being

Lusting to capture those

Who have wings in spite of him.



The Path


I am walking in the silken path

Where I walk alone, alone,

On the path wide enough

For a thousand men.


And then, across the path,

I see a silhouette approach

The man comes closer, edging, slowly.

His shadow grows clearer, more concise.


The clearer he becomes –

His face is now sun-kissed –

The more I hate him.

Hate his clarity,

Curse his existence,

See it as superfluous:

I wish him dead.


He is almost beside me now

I toy with the idea of happy murder

He smiles from a near distance

And all of a sudden:

The path was no longer mine.


The path wide enough for a thousand men

Was not wide enough for the both of us.


One Comment Add yours

  1. Good angle, the first seemed quite Blakean …


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