The cubicle

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

How elegant your letters and your thoughts;
Ambiguous was your touch upon my throat.
You destroyed  my words and all  that I had wrought
You were no lover but a self crazed goat.

As in this mental jail I'm  now enrapped,
I'll use this time to write,yet what to say?
Perhaps my mind can extricate a map,
From which I'll plot the route to get away.

The prisons we think external are inside
Yet in such captive grief  we may soon die.