A Slow Detonation
I. Imprisoned
Stone frames a freedom
that swallows every horizon whole.
Iron teeth bite shut the sky,
keeping light’s whispers out.
Here, the freedom is absence,
and absence is forever.
II. A Slow Detonation Poem
Power is the lie
that fits their fist,
that names the bruise
necessary.
That tells the wound —
this is right.
Their boots don’t care.
March.
March on.
But revolution
is under our nails,
in our molars’ grit,
in the way we still
peel the label
off a beer bottle —
like a slow detonation.
Stay furious.
The night is listening,
and already surrendering
to our insistent dawn.
Written for (II.) dVerse Poets “Power” prompt, and (I.) Ink in Thirds prompt “view” without using the word “view” ©Misky 2006-2025.
Description of the featured photo is included in the ALT field for the visually impaired — for those without visual assistance apps: A black-and-white photograph taken at Hammerhus, Bornholm, of a small stone dungeon door set deep within thick, rough-hewn walls. A heavy iron grate with vertical bars blocks the narrow opening, beyond which is only darkness. Crumbled stone and dust lie at the base, hinting at centuries of decay. Hammerhouse was built in the 9-11th centuries.
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