Fevered Mind

A poem by Sydney Stone. I do not own the image.

Far beneath grounds deep-frozen,

Sits a man in posture lonesome,

Upon a seat, wrought from bones,

His skin as grey and cold as stone,

About his person ice does linger,

What hints of life there are but meagre,

And at his feet a translucent form,

Leashed and collared, chain-adorned,

A small child, the form can only be,

Gently weeping, wishing to be free,

“Father, mercy,” she begs on bended knee,

“Release my spirit that I may be at ease…”

Stony-eyed, he gazes back,

The perfect edifice of emotions lacked,

“Why chain me here when it was you who stole,

My youth and comfort, my story unable to unfold,

What evils am I guilty for? 

What sins and failures are against me born?”

No response is freely given,

Stoney-eyed and feature-riven,

Except a tightened grip on chain,

A blank expression and hidden pain,

And thus they sit in chamber frozen,

Echoing with words unspoken.