The Glass Coffin

25

I am lying here in my glass coffin.
The hounds have descended, thirsting for my blood.
They line up to watch me bleed, but it is not my spilling they relish.
The masses wish me burned in an inferno, reduced to rubble.
But it is not my ashes they crave — only the sight of me besmirched, anguished.

The majority has spoken in open debate, broadcast for all to see.
Truth holds no meaning; I can count those who dare oppose on one hand.
There is no denying it now, my fate is sealed — I am finished.
The hounds demand I be hung out to dry.
Yet they do not wish to see me wither — only to display my suffering.

Look. I am lying here, soul bare, drowning in shame.
I choke.

I am lying here in my glass coffin.
The people have spoken; the court’s verdict means nothing.
Encased in glass, there is no hiding from the scorn of multitudes.
Even the uninterested glance, compelled, unavoidable.
Some see me on screens they cannot avoid.

What a damning world, where everyone has a say.
Never mind that it is my soul condemned, still breathing.
Worst of all, I see it all — as much as anyone through this glass.
I could leave this box, paint it crimson, drape it with cloth.
But there is no escape. Cameras, lenses, it is relentless.
I feel fingers pointed, senses sharpened, emotions torn.

The hounds line up with cruel comments.
My existence is mocked; the young and old pass judgment.
I clasp my hands to my chest, shielding a heart ready to burst.
This is the way of the dead — lying still in a coffin,
Clutching my soul to protect it from damnation.

I must learn to embrace this new existence.
This glass coffin was custom made, not my design.
I did not choose it; it was thrust upon me by force, malice, hatred.
I hope to be buried where none can find me, lest they desecrate my rest.

Those who mourn must protect me, perhaps even use the same channels the hounds employ.
My life broadcast. I am famed as a killer, yet I protest innocence — unheard.
A few dare defend me, but risk joining me in this glass tomb.
“He did it,” they say. Everywhere I look, in reflections, on rooftops.
Some try to shield me, stop the stones and bullets from shattering glass.
A blessing: the glass is bulletproof… for now.

Some have tried to cast the coffin into the sea.
But I float, wave to wave, wind carrying me back.
To those who love me, stay steadfast.
One day, rewrite the narrative; erase the falsehoods.
Discreetly publish the truth. Perhaps it is futile — I am already encased.

I am lying here in my glass coffin.
Transparent, strong, yet fragile; fear coils within.
I wonder what life could have been if I never learned to drive.
Would I have avoided that November street, the deed that condemns me?
Does retracing my steps restore pride, or just open wounds?

I could take up painting, create a new picture to shift the status quo.
I hear my heart beat. Perhaps I could carve it out to save myself from anguish.
Yet something keeps me focused — a thirst to fight, to see justice.
This name means more than seven letters spelling it.

I might revert to age five, play hide-and-seek with imaginary friends.
They will not find me.
But counting to twenty-five reminds me: this is no game. Life and death are real.
Yet comfort comes when I imagine my old home — that basket my folks placed me in to sleep soundly.
How I wish I could swap this glass coffin for that simple basket.
Endearing memories make me restless, rigid.

All senses tell me to remain calm.
A storm is herded my way.
It is unbecoming to fall; pieces too heavy for my mother to gather.
If those pursuing me knew the stakes, they would ease their words.
I will be buried in sand — all glass is made from liquid and sand; in the furnace, it crumbles.

I have learned my lessons, built much with bare hands. I should know.
No. My hands are up. I surrender to those who condemn me.
How did I come to lie in such sorrow?
This box cannot compare to my father Ezekiel’s shed.
I would rather spend my days there, with a toolbox and ants — simple, fitting.

I am lying in my glass coffin.
Exhausted, yet I must keep composure; the air thins, nowhere to turn.
My words have no meaning here; they are void.
A coup has been staged; lights glare as dark as my heart.
Pundits plunder ill-gotten gains from my suffering — a show for viewers.
Comments float: “Let him lie there and suffer as she did” or “Cut his air, broadcast his last breath.”
Some watch from rooftops, sticks and stones in their hands, constant.

That was me, once, when life had meaning; I even commented then.

Now, I lie here in my glass coffin.
What will it take for people to forget?
It does not matter; I have resigned myself.
I lie in this box, 0.9 metres squared.
A mob for me, one against.
The against triumphs anyway.

Just a handful believe I am innocent: my folks, my sister, friends who vouch day in, day out.

Here in my glass coffin:
I am conscious, lucid.
Awake to the world’s prejudice.
A billboard screams, “Death to that man.”

But I am someone’s son.
I am a son to my mother, a cousin to Lou, uncle to my sister’s children — though it barely counts.
No one hears. Judges matter more.
I was the man when the deed occurred.
The verdict is in; she could not lie.
History records crime against me.
Who will believe me over her?

I am lying here in my glass coffin.
It’s over.
I have been stripped of all that I am.