I wake once more just like before,
     on gurney bed I lay.
And count the days inside my head,
     today like yesterday.
A dozen here, a dozen there,
     the hours start to drone.
He said he take me back he did,
     he said he'd take me home.

I stare at sterile ceiling white,
     no sky invades my vision,
And watch the seconds ticking by,
     in ultimate precision.
No literature to gorge myself,
     with gormandiser greed.
Just mindless conversation,
     that in boredom will succeed.

The table also sits there white,
     its legs obtuse and fat.
A veritable elephant,
     no circus acrobat.
I try to close my eyes,
     and blink sterility away.
Boring, banal, bland,
     complete prosaic sobriquet.

A prison cell, it feels at least,
     no chance for me to leave.
Routine upon routine,
     makes Creativity aggrieve.
I pull the pillow over face,
     and ram the cotton tight.
Anything to turn the,
     everlasting day to night.

I holler loud as loud can be,
     at feather congregation.
The muffled sound just turns to heat,
     to ease my indignation.
Again I scream, again the fibres,
     press against my face.
A soft caress they now impart,
     warmed by fireplace.

I draw a breath to scream again,
     my lungs engorged and warm.
Prepared to feel the fibre's touch,
     as anger takes its form.
My face contorted, hatred reigns,
     is this the life I craved?
Life that's lifeless, drab and dull,
     suffice to say depraved.

Mother enters through the door,
     complete with rigid smile.
And Father not too far behind,
     they'd both been gone awhile.
Sister too, Alisha,
     breaks the silence with her wit.
A maiden so obedient that,
     I'd swear her counterfeit.

The pillow now before me soft,
     my arms around it hug,
As sweet Alisha flits around,
     a summer's ladybug.
Thirteen years, yet still so small,
     with constant eerie glow.
When older one perhaps could see,
     her tame adagio.

My mother such a stoic soul,
     her eyes of chestnut ripe.
Her stare a reckoned force I think,
     a worthy archetype.
A bob brunette so prim it's true,
     confirms composed demeanour.
To any human being that,
     in past or whence had seen her.

Tall, exquisite, nonsense none,
     complete with patience saintly.
With daughter I'd describe bizarre,
     now crooning oh so quaintly.
I hear her talk to Father,
     voices low, with hidden topic.
Keeping up appearance,
     discontentment microscopic.

He kisses her upon the brow,
     a sign I comprehend.
A bribe, a hush, a contract,
     forces conversation end.
And she curtails her onslaught,
     though it takes an eye so trained.
To find the hidden message,
     in emotion so constrained.

I spy them both assessing me,
     my actions come to trial.
And though my hardest I will try,
     that pair I can't beguile.
"This drawing son," he starts to say,
     expressing consternation.
The daily struggle, oft I face,
     trite excommunication.

In hands he holds the parchment black,
     with scene my hands did draw.
My inner artist's output
     to my soul an open door.
An opening he'd rather close,
     bolt, lock and key discard.
Forever barring entry,
     to my memory boulevard.

The picture hangs in hands of steel,
     his grip as strong as vice.
Repression reigns supreme,
     amid my prison paradise.
Guilt and shame parade my thoughts,
     to sin I seem enslaved.
Ungrateful wretch I call myself,
     again ice misbehaved.

"The nightmares still torment you?"
     he has the gall to ask.
Knowing that surviving night,
     my terrifying task.
I want to be sarcastic, rude,
     and share my root emotion.
Of the lack of love I feel from him,
     his fatherly devotion.

Yet bite my tongue, I feel I must,
     I ne'er love confrontation.
A move I feel justified,
     not mere abject cunctation.
I answer "yes" then turn away,
     to face the sterile wall.
Sometimes it feels no different,
     to his long protracted drawl.

And then he's here right by my side,
     an arm atop my shoulder.
Resting there so heavily,
     I'm Atlas with my boulder.
"I'm sorry Xav", he speaks my name,
     colloquial and short.
Perhaps preserving energy,
     in case I ought retort.

It's not my fault I can't recall,
     events that past occurred.
Trapped inside my fragile mind,
     I seek them undeterred.
I'm safe for sure from outside force,
     the demons kept at bay
Yet existing now is all I do,
     as day fades into day.

I sit and talk or paint all day,
     I cannot leave the room.
But all the others come and go,
     confirmed they are immune.
Bertholdt tells me there are more,
     in this place residing.
I wonder though how many those,
     exist with purpose hiding.

Father now has left me,
     so I can contemplate alone.
I have never felt so awkward,
     though I'm supposed to be at home.
My picture left upon the bed,
     to build my guilt henceforth.
The frozen clouds hang black and grim
     as verdant arcs ride North.

I turn the painting over,
     so the charcoal marks the cotton.
The grey green marks of nightmares,
     like a mould progressing rotten.
The times I feel most comfortable,
     and dare I say it needed,
Are when I talk to Bertholdt,
     expectations are exceeded.

So kind, so gentle, world's apart,
     far above my blood.
A garden filled with blossoms,
     when compared to wilting bud.
Yet little time he has for me,
     though time with him I crave.
His work far too important,
     for our planet he will save.

He won't divulge the details,
     but with knowledge so immense,
He labours, toils, night and day,
     exuding confidence.
And once my quarantine complete,
     and I can leave this room.
He plans to tell me everything,
     and let my life resume.

A member of his staff he says,
     researching for a cure.
In contrast stark to protocol,
     that champions immure.
He tells me I'm important,
     a relic of the past.
A time when humans roamed the Earth,
     first-rate and unsurpassed.

When first we met he told me things,
     at first I thought as slander.
About that girl with Onyx hair,
     the one they call Yolanda.
He told me all about her past,
     and how she came to be,
A force against the will of God,
     a great calamity.

She hinders work, attacks his friends,
     in short a perfect pest.
Ruining his lifetimes work,
     with which she seems obsessed.
Fooled I was, he claims it so,
     bewitched by her allure.
A frail girl, so innocent,
     in truth a mile from pure.

Her Father was an heir of sorts,
     and owned a corporation.
The size of which beyond compare,
     eschewed collaboration.
Before the fall their focus lay,
     in complementing man.
Augmenting their genetic code,
     as Nature's bogeyman.

Perhaps their work, though quite unknown,
     paved way for Hate's creation.
The poison apple, Oh so ripe,
     malnourished population.
And since the fall his only task,
     to fix the human race.
By changing life's innate design,
     through chromosomes enlace.

So Bertholdt fights Yolanda,
     since her Father's expiration.
Entrenched in mortal combat,
     each a fighter for their nation.
And over relics come to blows,
     high prized antiquity.
Locked away inside a vault,
     safe, but far from free.

I love my family dearly but,
     with absent memories so.
Connecting my loved ones,
     is a task I undergo.
They see me rather different,
     I feel the judgement cast.
Our past together gone astray,
     despite my questions asked.

The photographs I've seen of us,
     confirming our relation,
Can never fully reconcile,
     their obvious frustration.
My sister dearest, often tries,
     extending out her hand.
Yet all of my responses,
     drives me deeper in the sand.

Yet him I trust, the man in black,
     with ruby coloured laces.
How everyday I thank the Lord,
     I fell into his graces.
The only price I've had to pay,
     to a face I never see.
He holds that thing to which I'm drawn,
     my precious tiny key.