Snared

Scratching, always scratching

dead skin 'round his teeth, his nails;

picking at his scars and scabs

occupies him for days upon days.

Waiting, always waiting

his wet skin like surgical gauze

now and then fails, letting his insides out

as he fidgets, fusses with the knots

chewing at the rags, hopelessly hopelessly

waiting for his cavalry, waiting to be free.