Caged

Snow in sheets sways so slowly
In the night’s breeze, lit up by its
Own startling brightness,
Allied, inevitably, by the glare
Of the surrounding street lights.
Each step on my long walk home
From the abandoned party is
Taken with petty caution,
When blatant disregard for all
Courses bitterly through freezing
Veins, filled with the stilted
Passion of everything which
Has been, and will be, lost forever.
Placeless and pace-less
(though not so far from my bed),
Every half-step forward
Represents two steps back,
As the ghost town of Clongriffin
Rises against me in terrible silence.
The few who live here resent me,
And I them, because our faults
Are never more exposed than
When intruded upon by a counter
(mercifully closed at this hour).
And those at the party, who
Supposedly stand by my side of
The bartering, are really no different,
Codded as they are by the
Folly of futile chases in the dark
When the shutters come down
And they all drink away their nights
(erring in lust where I lapse in love).
Wraith-like, I stalk the streets home,
Ever fearful of my past catching
Hold of me again, with every
Shadow a threat to my essence
(and each one ungraspable, too).
Deceitful is the path I tread,
But more treacherous is the truth
Enforced isolation brings to the
Thoughtful who should remain
Thoughtless for their own benefit:
That the fell chill choking my breath
Emanates from me myself and
Envelopes the genial snow and breeze
Around me, contorting its serenity
And coaxing it into becoming a storm,
The thundering crescendo of which
Blinds and cuts right through me
(just me).
And then I slip and crack a bone
In my left hand, the one I write with,
And this compounds the trembling
Misery both within me and without
(I never really made it home).