LIKE PAUL, LIKE SILAS

In this dungeon I lay, lips sealed, Waiting patiently for an angel, Either for danger or safety, Because my breath is corrupt As I enjoin the company of anguish, Which makes my days seem extinct. I stand helpless among able giants. Sepulchre beckons on me to come As the lions of men roar in fury: My eyes dim by reason of sorrow. When my days become past, With broken and tattered purpose, The night then changes into day: The light shortened 'cos of the dark. I asked, "Where is now my hope, In this wretched and elusive world? And if it comes who shall see it?" Certainly, no one: who cares? Besides, I've been a lone ranger, Begging for peanut amidst plenty! This experience is older than I; And no strength I've got to live. Expectation becomes faintly seen, But the inner man keeps shouting: "This is not my home; I must go!" Liturgical approach I sought, Minding the horror of the torture That builds my face and pelvics. No one taught me to write a letter, Not by a pen but with my bone and blood.