series2bk6.084

 

I sit in the chair of terror, wired up, a suppliant for rescue, but fearful of the bogeys who lurk murkily in every conversation, clad in shadows, from which they're always ready to pounce. I bounce back with a twin Self boldly holding my hand - blandly explaining such monsters as ponderous fictions depicted by imagination - creations without muscle, to be thrust aside. But I'm hiding in a tumbril on the way to execution, refusing both trial and pardon in my proclamation of patiently reiterated innocence - whence there's no call for a grieving reprieve.      Yet e'er the jury can my guilt proclaim,      my blushes paint me with the tint of shame.