Slaves without Masters
A thistle in his palm distracts his mind from real harm,
white knuckles on the rail dilute his terror into calm.
The quiet of the stairway and his mothers doorway shut,
the ticking of the Bornholm and a sinking in his gut.
These things all distant memories yet living tears now flow,
in haunted rooms un-reveries that no-one else should know.
While the authors of his secrets are safely in the grave,
his shackles bind him ceaseless, he remains his masters slave.