Story in poem

[Plays With Life]

I stand covered.
Smothered.
In silk and restraint.
She’s there, helpless…
Helpless against the force of the mutitude around her.
I imagine I would be desperate, in her situation.
But she doesn’t look desperate. She looks calm.
It would be so easy to hand her a coin.
To grant her access to the goodwill of the tradesmen around her.
But I’ve done that once before, when I was still young and virile, and even then barely escaped the consequences.
I recall the threats of exile, the ostracization from my class.
I turn away with resolve, and walk into my villa.
… and shut the door.

(What happens next? Write it in poem. )

[Philemon]

Originally Posted by Plays With Life

I stand covered.
Smothered.
In silk and restraint.
She’s there, helpless…
Helpless against the force of the mutitude around her.
I imagine I would be desperate, in her situation.
But she doesn’t look desperate. She looks calm.
It would be so easy to hand her a coin.
To grant her access to the goodwill of the tradesmen around her.
But I’ve done that once before, when I was still young and virile, and even then barely escaped the consequences.
I recall the threats of exile, the ostracization from my class.
I turn away with resolve, and walk into my villa.
… and shut the door.

(What happens next? Write it in poem. )

The sound evokes a shadowy question.
Behind this door, quieted from the elements of tribe,
Do I understand the solidity of space?
This room was once something to admire.
The fire was a well-earned commodity.
I boiled hot tea and the aroma seeped into the oak.
Now the desperation I thought she would choose
I have chosen. A glimpse of consequence has another
aura. I turn back to the door. I stare. I imagine.
What is the image of exile? What have I built?
The stillness tonight is contemplative, yet empty.
I remember a time like this
When out the window I saw the horizon and not the village.