Bailey’s Birdcage – A Poem

Bailey’s Birdcage

By N. M. Sirett©

BAILEY’S BIRDCAGE

The warder’s key jangles

The archways narrow

The Fleet’s stench is underfoot

Shrill is the right of juries

Loud in my ears. Injustice. The verdict: lies

I stand

accused of…?

Outside, gaslight deepens its hue

A funnel of savage light. Lamps flare

But diminish against such hideous glowers: blazing blue –

Gaslight blue

The clock drags a solemn hand over its weary face

And mourns me

I place one foot before another

Treading methodically

Along an encroaching passage

Walls loom – like their sneers

I didn’t…

The evening’s blade is whetted by visceral hatred

Gaslights fire up the square

Beneath the lamps stand an ungodly bunch,

Rudely cloaked in guilt and denial,

Masked behind

The casting of dispersions. Upon shield-less me.

The lamps burn bright. Gaslight blue.

To match the withering sky

The truth of the day is swathed

In night’s cruel blind

Stars appear like secret winks – they understand –

I need wings,

And access to the warder’s key

But this birdcage is sealed with an iron-clad lock

And the only flight I’ll take

Is through the noose

I was ignored down here

Forgotten in the dirt

Until the cell door squalled open

And blood bloomed in my brain

Pulsed in my chest

At the juror’s words

Echoing down Dead Man’s Walk

Reading it wrong,

Twisting the pen,

Nib bending to their will

Until

The story is about them

Which it never was

Nor was there written proof

Their rewritten words condemn me

They, who fake righteousness

And are, thus, believed. I am accused of their

Make-believe

Injustice steeps me in an abyss of black pain. Cuts

Deeper than real guilt.

When guilty, one can confess or

Repent

But false accusations

Cause wounds that don’t heal. And great sickness

Curdles the mind

The birdcage is a steel dome

With freedom-gaps I cannot reach

My hands grip the railings

And my lifeline bleeds

My silent breath pours into the space which is free

I am

Wordless

Resigned

Outside the crowd comes to the boil

And froths. So densely thick,

Hypnotized by the light of the gas

Those condemning streetlamps

Waiting…

Anticipating the act

A frill

At my expense

I’m too wise to utter words

Or demand defence

A last right

Even a last meal

But I know that

You cannot pour water on a wooden flower

And expect it to bloom

Beneath the gaslights

Many feet shuffle

Impatiently. They stand

To gain

From my pain

What do they stand to gain

In vilifying me?

No matter

My truth would only dissipate like summer clouds  

Oh, sweet stars

How I wish I had wings

And the warder’s key…

Burn gaslight, burn as bright as you can

I walk the dead man’s walk

The rope awaits my throat

And the spectators need

A show

In the gaslight’s glow

Spice for the prosaic pot

Like the canary

Down the mine

I’ll take your gas

And do the time

The bird that drops

Inside the cave

Will haunt you so

Beyond the grave

The bird will choke

The bird will heave

The gas! The gas!

Now you can breathe