The inner feeling

In which they are hidden

There’s no power of healing

The things that are forbidden

 

A little, tiny, very small

Peeking through the wall

Short, not very tall

The most whimsical of us all

 

Power we cannot see

The ghastly things are up for a walk

The prisoners are we

Suddenly we’re not able to talk

 

A dried fiend,

A false end,

At least it can make us understand

 

All the faces we won’t see

All the places in which we cannot be

For all, we can’t make ourselves free

 

© 2017 Tricia Johansson a.k.a Trix Joyce