This Prison

in the dead of the hot summer 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 from this prison,

where it has been held for so long,

never allowed to become

all that it was meant to be,

praying for survival

among the destruction of these prison walls,

returning to a home

it has never really known;

sleep comes hard,

in this lonely land of pain,

as thoughts of words already said,

echo through the silence of the mind,

remembering places nearly forgotten

by this clever disguise called life;

the still small voice,

softly 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.

.

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