Hemming and Hawing

To say I feel alone is an understatement.

The walls creep in,

Predator like

And I, its prey.

My mind drifts in and out of loneliness,

Bobs to and fro on watery thoughts.

They drip from my ear.

Once solid,

Once oil heavy,

Now nothing but soggy hues.

A blank canvas,

Waiting to be drawn,

To be painted,

To be a masterpiece.

To be something other than what I have become,

Would be magnificent.

I sit,

Paintbrush in hand,

Music on the ready,

and the colours lined up like soldiers about to wage war.

They scream for blood,

Guns fastened in trembling hands,

Eyes fixed on the prize.

I hold my breath but for a moment, and the years pass through it.

My hesitation becomes locked solid,

Brass iron shackled around my wrists.

It forbids me to draw.

I blame the chamber man for this -

Hesitation.

His constant presence is a blood stain on clean linen.

Diverted blame hides my own shame,

As one by one, the soldiers dry up.

The music continues to play,

Scratched and changed.

A continual reminder of failure.

My failure,

Epic as it is,

Still lives.

Pure,

Unadulterated

and colour drenched.

The hesitation lives in me.

Breathes through me.

It has become my sole purpose for living.

This hesitation in me has always been,

Will always be

Until the chamber man leaves.

Until then,

My procrastination feeds me.

I was never really free.