The Corridor
Confidently
The door swings open, to the furthest reach of its hinges
Air set alight by her presence, the crowd is drawn
Swinging her arms without a care, they are boundless
With steps that echo, evidently faultless and proud
Cutting swiftly through the waves, the masses part instinctively
The vague war cry dominates, even when it doesn't connect
Refusing to settle, for any lesser impact
For she will march triumphantly, through the shackled masks
Comparable to puppets, they are but ghosts in a machine
Hesitantly
The hinges part way, as the door creeps into the room
Conforming to the heard, with a silence that shall not falter
Arms rigid and cutting through the air, he is curbed and confined
With a muted pigeon's step, evidently nervy and fitful
Hit by the torrent, subjected to an eternity of abrasion
Voices resonate and surround, but this one stays muted
Venomous and yet withdrawn, he refrains from making an impact
For he will trudge regrettably, through the unending exchange
Comparable to puppeteers, the others seem confident and free
Copyright © Michael Whatley | Year Posted 2015
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