To you who are not here

How like a prison is my cubicle
How wary is  my body on this chair.
How still my heart and yet how strangely fickle.
How fast it flies to you who are not here.

How elegant your letters and your thoughts
How gentle was your touch upon my throat.
And yet you killed  my words and all the sense  I brought
You loved me not,but like a wasp did gloat

As in this mental jail I'm  tightly  trapped,
I'll use my time to write and make my prayer.
Perhaps my mind can extricate a map..
From which I'll plot the route to get away.

The prisons which seem external are inside
Yet in such captive grief so many  die.