Shutter Island

Shutter Island

In the dim mist of an island, a lone, half‑moon light Shrouds the crag of the ward where the wrongs are set right;
The residents, silent, the corridors echo With doubts that are tossed in the gale‑tossed fen.

The tale of a man with a mind, a half‑shattered view, His thoughts like pendants that swing, so implacably true; He walks, half‑dyed in memory’s sludge, Confident that the object of hope resides on the ridge.

E’en as the storm breaken sees the sea swell,
The island again receptively deems: truth is called By a touch, an echo, a careless refrain;
The valley of guilt’s whisper still holds his claim.

The poet drifts – a reward of a trivially eerie morning;
All is a movie that may hazard the heart’s courage.