Blind to Hope
He has you caught and so you lay.
You are chained with chains made of paper clips.
You are thrown on a feather bed.
You cry out at an unlocked door.
You scream at a passing policeman.
You wail to the search dog.
Why so long have you waited?
Freedom is right at your fingertips.
All you have to do is snatch it.
The people who can help stand before you.
Why are you not holding their hands.
They are calling out to you in entreaty.
The paper clips hold you.
The featherbed captures you.
The unlocked door is your prison.
Lay in that tantilizing beam of sunlight.
Hear the laughing echo of your captor.
"At your fingertips are your means of escape."
A/N: You know, I had a dream. I made a new decorating thing. All you need is a cieling, a bag of paperclips, and about an hour. You put the rest together. This poem is just about hope being right there but still blind to you. Deticated to an old friend, she knows who she is.