Now it’s a glass wall.
I’ve been confined before, but never this.
I see its pristine contours sparkling in the sun
as if jestingly buffed by some sadistic demon.
It blocks my exit.
As soon as I make the decision to leave
it rises in that part of my mind that needs to be imprisoned
and when I give in to its desires it sinks from my vision.
I consider trying to trick it.
If I sauntered into the hall in my nightwear
as if to go into the bedroom,
I may catch it unawares;
I could fling the door open and leap out,
but we are forbidden to wear pyjamas in the communal areas,
I’ll go back to bed and meditate on the things I know.
There is no wall, except that which I have built.
Whilst others have hurt me, no-one but me raised it,
and although family and friends are reassuring;
saying it is no wonder I am ill,
I am horrified by my increasing weakness.
There is no wall, other than the one I have built.
There is no wall,
but I feel it,
currently beyond my vision, lurking,
©Jane Paterson Basil