this prison

in the dead of the night,

the breeze finally comes,

as the heat floats gently away,

like the breath of a slowly dying man,

his soul crying out to flee this prison,

where it has been held for so long,

never allowed to become,

all that it could have been,

praying for survival,

among the destruction of prison walls,

returning to a home it has never known;

sleep comes hard,

in this land of loneliness and pain,

while thoughts of words already said,

echo through the silence of the mind,

remembering places nearly forgotten,

by this clever disguise called life;

the small still voice,

quietly calls out,

offering a refuge of hope and light,

amidst the cold and barren darkness,

of this forgotten, forsaken cell;

I wish I could walk out of this prison,

discard it like old clothes,

free at last,

no restrictions,

no fear or rage,

only quiet, simple thought;

this prison which holds me to the earth,

this prison that makes me crave depravity,

this prison in which I was born,

this prison which has grown with me,

but has never let me grow.

.

.