Of Pockets and Prisons

Whole countries abide in my pockets. Places that live in closets of cloth, pokes, pouches, and nests hid darkly as the cloistered and inert. Mossy dens and dimples of lint they are, until hands fumble for a castle, a temple or even derelict homes; then as fingers recall their shape they reform to places that can be entered again. Once I was in a prison I strode many lands climbed horizons, journeyed by the light of waymarking moons. yet I was a prison within a prison. I live in a small plot now, it can be counted in feet not acres, yet I own the whole sky, I can only be measured in expanding circles. There are worlds in my pockets, each one represents a pebble picked from one beach to take to another. That other shore is not far now, there I will empty those pockets, all thoughts of time and place.