Exile

The sadness of an exiled man,
Consigned to his fate in a jail with no walls,
Knowing that he might, he could, and he can,
If not for a myriad of his own flaws.
Freedom all around him, but no one will look,
For eons have stolen his flair,
And placed him inside an invisible nook,
With space only for one, but no longer a pair.
He looks upon greatness, of men and their deeds,
Lighting passions thought dead long ago,
But now he must wait and repel all his needs,
Whilst the passage of time is unbearably slow.
The cruelty of seeing the days passing by,
Stretches the depths of his soul,
He’s beyond stages of watery eye,
When there’s only a faraway, ethereal goal.
He dare not believe that there is a solution,
To this rigid road that he treads every day,
That tests every fibre of his constitution,
And slashes his heart in a horrible way.
He cannot choose when this chapter will cease,
And a warmth might return to his heart,
Frightened to wish for the slightest of peace,
The smallest, most tremulous start.