Peter was sleeping fastened with double chains.
And the chains fell from his hands.
I was watching a live-streamed mass down the slow internet lines.
The hopeless rural broadband fell into ether’s sands.

I caught snatches about being locked in prison.
Then the internet, exhausted, cut out.
We ourselves always hear intermittently with blurred vision.
We do not listen we shout.

We are caught in the prison of our own doubt.
The signal weak.
But sometimes from small snatches fear can be put to rout.
We can concentrate on just one sentence and still seek.

Then chains might fall.
A distant quiet yet unwavering signal will call.