Inertia

By Sharon Ann Philip

The half open suitcase yawned against a chair

Oblivious to the anxious fingers dissecting its entrails.

The cluttered room, spread out like puzzle pieces mocked

Her delusion of freedom. Imperfect decisions and gullible thoughts

Rooted her in this house, her desires entombed in the walls.

And yet, there is stillness within motion.

In a lighthouse beckoning stray vessels

Or a bullet silencing life’s universal rhythm.

But her fear remained. For this rolling stone

Had stalled on scorched earth.

Undone plans reek of betrayal, she thought.

The tragic abandonment of fascination with

Faraway places, favouring inert ideas frozen in time.

She was her own saboteur, unable to flee or roam

Instead gazed upon, like dead specimens of a museum.

By Sharon Ann Philip