Writing about web page http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/5292102.stm
It's been a while since I last posted, but I've begun writing regularly again, and here is a poem that was inspired by the news story given in the bbc link. Obviously, it isn't an acurate account, only inspired by how the story moved me. Enjoy.
And there is always a way. A way in, a way out. A way.
Away – I flew from there like a swallow urged onward by the wind,
my feet pounding the pavement harder than necessary,
attempting to ground myself and prevent my weak knees from buckling.
run so far
in all my life.
Master. It was his way of hoisting my white flag, allowing him victory:
“Master”, I call, tears automatically coursing down my cheeks at him command;
“Master”, the slow strangulation of will, the hard iron cuffs about my skinny
wrists, carving his mark: “Master” into the bark of my bone.
He found me on the way to school. It was as simple as “Hello”, as simple as
a handshake. A How–Do–You–Do. Simple, yet, as is the way with fate, that hand–
shake sealed a contract (I was not old enough to know about small–print)
and hand–in–hand his grip tightened and off he walked, trailing me behind, my
And the tears.
Ten years. Those words mean not a thing to me. What is eight years?
It is not 365 times eight. It is not twelve times eight. It is not measurable for me
except by the childhood I lost, how much I missed my mother, and the memories
I’ll never have; high school boys, the parties and a sweet sixteen. Sixteen was never
But there is always a way, a way in, a way out. There is a way to condense eight years
into an acorn, and