I wait for something that will never come.
I long to splutter, crumble, cut the dust,
I long to cleave my prisoners, to gash
Their bleeding entrails, slit their tangled guts
Until they die in anguish on the floor.
A window paralysed and stiffened, I
Must even stare upon the dull world’s form
And watch the doings of a thousand clowns
Repeated lamentably day by day.
Dawn rises not with graceful motion here,