Crashed

The eyes climb open and the light begins
To slowly work inside
And memory returns of what has been:
Clean for so long, what pride
Was taken in that triumph of the will.
All gone. No pride, no more.
A dream of needles, and not just a dream,
Tore down the night before
With awful knowledge that a single drop
Of what was never real
Has left this paragon once more, again,
A slave to hollowed steel
So should he strive again with foolish pride
And prove himself a clown?
Or fill the cylinder so heaven-full
And push the plunger down?

Criss Cross

They've knocked another window in the wall
high up, well made, and neat and square,
An opening for light, and air, so small
It shouldn't bother me that it is there.
But there it is.  And others.  And yet more
and daily more that pierce the wall anew,
And light criss crosses harsh upon the floor,
the pleasant peaceful darkness pierced through.
It's hard to move now for i seem to know
That if I tread within those shafts of light
I will be burned to ash and cinder's glow,
Destroyed at once by Phoebus' searing spite
And so upon my bed I sit dismayed
And fear no more the thought of moment's pain
It is, trust me on this, a surgeon's blade
I'll carve myself a smiling face again.