Unhooked

“Darling, you left the phone unhooked again,”
She whispers, as her hand slips into mine.
I think to myself that looking is free,
Of course, but that acting comes with reason
And freedom’s worth could not bear her losses.

Here I lie, in her arms, feather in cap,
Its placement a pitiful performance,
A periphery outside her own game.
Sight was becoming only in tears, then,
As my ears walked a musical landscape.

The striking piano chord locks me in,
Holding me closer than her deathly arms.
I feel trapped in a cocoon of indifference
The more I consider this ritual
Of ours, a haunting weekly procession.

My mind’s eye beholds the empty spaces,
A futile dream as they are to me, yet
I shall not stop dreaming till they are real.
A moment approaches where idleness
Ceases, and escape can be grasped by hands.

Freedom should be mine by right, not by chance.

(after three and a half years Francis Reilly (me!) has discovered iambic pentametre, and this is his first attempt at writing a poem within this structure - needless to say, Francis should read more then come back and try again).