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From this tight swathing, dimly I discern
Sounds from the outer air.
I writhe and quiver, straining all to learn
What wonders are out there.

In my straight-jacket, blind and bound and tight,
I pulse with growing power,
Knowing that from this un-considering night
I shall command my hour.

This fast constraint weakens and shreds away,
Parting the long-known dark,
And, as it shatters, splintered streaks of day
Become my new-seen mark.

The self that was, defined and dealt by men,
Buckles, dispels, unweaves :
My being, as a wyvern from its den
Flexes, uncoils, up-heaves.

Feed me or fear me, there is none to bar:
Your words are outworn things.
My song goes skyward - paints the morning star -
As I unsheathe my wings.

© Colin Bailey, April 2010