Chuck Peterson

A Cage I Named Comfort

 

In the maze of my mind
I build walls—
bricks of expectation,
mortar of fear.

Each brick a promise,
a whisper of safety—
a cage I named comfort.

I lay foundations
trembling.
Fortresses rising,
blocking out the unknown,
the unpredictable.

Meant to shield me,
keep chaos away—
they close in instead.
A prison
of my own making.

Inside these walls
I pace
narrow corridors,
my voice echoing back—
the only sound,
the silence tightening
around my ribs.

Security—
a mirage,
shimmering,
vanishing as I near.

Leaving me parched,
alone,
in a desert
of isolation.

What I thought was protection
is a veil,
a barrier,
a cold distance.

In my quest for safety
I trade away warmth,
connection,
the pulse
of being alive.

And yet—what if the walls
were never as strong as my fear?