I
Amazata of IIWII

Forbidding and inevitable storms
blow in from the black side
of our conscience,
over the stadia of our petty island,
the stadia where those simple little boys
who live on in our hearts
dream of stepping out
and hearing their own, special song.

Haloed in a dark place,
in six sides of steel fence,
held taut by rolled steel
at three, six and twelve feet steep:
the thankless perimeter.
And beyond it:
the innumerable, awful souls of your shadowlands,
and your murderous, self-loathing exterior.