My Mind’s Closed Gate

I thought I hated ships and sailing trips, Li’le did I know, afraid I was to drown; I thought I hated hallowed buts and ifs, But stuck I was on an island my own; I hated too the sight of every shoe, But I feared in unknown ahead to move, Smug in cosy comforts of my igloo, Scared of eerie change from my settled groove. I recoiled at the sight of stamps and seals, In muted mutiny, in wound-less war, It was my sickly sense against power’s ills, Not yet the sole truth to what I abhor. Things that disturb frighten and fascinate, Nigh but sour grapes are in the mind’s closed gate!