The Fugitive

by tfawcus

O fugitive, from whom and whence your flight,
with trepid step and eye of mirrored fear,
that casts its nervous glance from left to right
as shadows shift like wraiths to mock the ear
and touch the tattered garment of your mind,
deranged by horrid whispers of the past;
dismembered times, when night's dull orbs were blind,
ashamed to shine and so, concealed, aghast,

in tear-stained shrouds? Each edge of silvered smear
shows where the evil things have slowly sprawled
across a seething ferment of despair
and leered, as one sadistic monster crawled
to squeeze the moon of fragile hopes possessed,
and drape them on the tumult of the sky
in sacrificial splendour, like those oppressed
below, in huddled groups, about to die.

O fugitive! Was that to be your due?
And how did you escape? Was it the sum
of motherhood that clasped and smothered you
within her shattered breast, and silenced thrum
of broken heart, and life that ebbed away?
And did that willing shield protect you still,
until the dying embers of the day
gave way to ash at last, and night time chill?

And did you crawl from under her dead weight
with only that small fragment from her dress
clutched to a heart, as yet not filled with hate,
but only with the anguish of distress,
and cold with shock? And did you wildly run,
and still run on, despite the burning breath
that seared your heaving chest, until the sun
came up again, once more defeating death?

Then, there ahead, the cleansing ocean lay,
an endless calm beneath the burnished mist
with seagulls clamouring to greet the day
while ripples lapped the shore and shyly kissed
the shining strand, and then fell back once more,
abashed, until the surge emboldened them
to toss small gifts of fragile shells ashore
and woo the sands again with sea sprite gems.

And did you swim to cleanse away the grime,
enchanted by Calypso's sun-flecked smiles,
as her dolphin pod, suspending time,
enticed your soul to seek the Blessèd Isles?
But you were saved it seems, and did not drown;
at least not yet. A simple fisherman
spied you among the flotsam weed, weighed down
and near to death. His wrinkled face, suntanned

and wreathed in smiles, regarded your limp form
that retched with life anew upon the floor,
wrapped in a homespun rug to keep you warm.
Then winds that bore the acrid stench of war
sprang up to drive you west towards a life
on foreign soil far from your home, exiled,
where you could start afresh, away from strife;
a refugee behind barbed wire, reviled

by those who live a life of ease, in fear
of desperate men displaced and dispossessed,
and little princelings too, like you, Amir;
orphaned, frightened souls, seeking love and rest.
And will you find compassion or blind hate
and prejudice; new terrors to brave out,
more subtle than those horrors borne of late?
Will trust forever be displaced by doubt?

O fugitive, from whom and whence your flight,
with trepid step and eye of mirrored fear,
that casts its nervous glance from left to right
as shadows shift like wraiths to mock the ear
and touch the tattered garment of your mind,
deranged by horrid whispers that persist,
to drive you mad? Are night’s dull orbs still blind,
ashamed to shine, or can we co-exist?

Write A Review

Share A Story In A Poem contest entry