freedom in chains (a coronavirus lockdown narrative)

In the quietude of his chamber, a poet sits,
In the dim-lit cell of thought, where silence holds court
Over the clinking chains of isolation,
The world outside a distant murmur.
The walls, though close, are but a canvas
For the mind’s grand tapestry.
Here, in this solitude, the quill becomes his liberator,
The parchment his open sky.
Each stroke is a flight, a defiance of the chains
That bind flesh but not fancy.

Here, in the hush, words weave a tapestry
More vivid than the gaudiest day.
His quill dances upon the page,
Is said “Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage,”
And so our poet finds truth in the metaphysical jest.
Though barred from the world, his spirit roams free,
A swift that soars beyond the bars,
Where thoughts are the wind beneath its wings.
His verses are a paradox, they travel far,
Connecting distant souls with the magnetic pull of shared humanity.

The ink flows, a river breaking the dam of isolation,
Meandering through the valleys of despair,
To water the fields of imagination.
In the alchemy of his art, the poet transmutes
The leaden weight of solitude into the golden light of creation.
His sonnets are a rebellion, a declaration
That though his body is confined, his essence is as unbound as the stars.

For what are chains to the mind that can conjure worlds?
What power have walls over the architect of dreams?
In his verse, the poet holds a mirror to nature,
Reflecting not the visage of his cell, but the boundless landscapes of his inner realm.
Here, in the quiet sanctuary of his isolation,
He discovers the universe within, and in that vast expanse, he is free.