out of that fertile mind

I am checking my spelling
in that tattered lexicon
(yes, when one writes one has to)
when the night manager rings me up
"they are here"
my blood rises up to my ears,
I collect all the papers
throw them into the fire-
feeling so free after so long.
I had been seeking freedom-
from or for what purpose?
(it feels so meaningless now,
but it is not the time to ponder)
I look out of the window
see them hurrying towards me.
scared I trip and fall
landing on my face.
when they arrive there
I am out cold, clutching
scrapes of burnt paper.
someone pokes me with a gun
opening my eyes I see disinterest
they are in no hurry to shoot me.
(but how am to know that?)
words of what I had written
run past me like some prayer.
I hear a gunshot and a scream
they look beyond me
and run into that direction.

taking a cue
(we all need to do that)
I run out from the back exit.
catching my breath
I find myself deep in trash.
wading through it,
I walk out into the street
forcing myself to do it slowly.
if I run, I might not be so lucky
they would shoot me dead
(don't we all know
how the secret police work?)

"now I am so free,
so very free not to seek
that purposeless freedom"