The Last Convict

The Last convict I sit in the front yard it has a high fence that make the privacy intense I have created a prison and now it is too late. I see the top of a Cypress it looks like a Christmas tree blowing in a bad tempered Nordic wind. I think I will go to Norway this year, mother died at that time and I hope it will snow, overcast and rain make me sad in a way that is morbid. I will bring her flowers and I will cry, she was a lousy housewife but a great mother. In the chair next to me sits loneliness and says: so this was your dream to flee, find freedom yet shackled to the past. You will die alone not as a whisper in the wind and you will not be on the plane going north