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
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